junkmail for blankets

sai baba and me

an extract from my india travel journal (which is 50 pages long but attached at the end of this message in case you're an insomniac), with a baba bumper sticker and a photo of my first haircut in india. enjoy. oh, yes, and if you're a fan of nag champa incense, you can thank sai baba.

. . . . Shopping for postcards a week ago, I stumbled across a picture of an Indian sitting in a Yoga pose, smiling. It was nothing extraordinary, except for the fact that his hair, a legitimate afro, fills half the postcard. I giggled to myself, snatched as many as possible, and mailed about four or five. Later, I found out that his name is Shriya Sai Baba, and he is possibly the most influential man in India outside of the Prime Minister and Sachin Tendulkar, the Barry Bonds of the cricket world. He has allegedly performed thousands of miracles, often producing gifts for people out of thin air. He has a following rivaling that of any celebrity in America, and he has ashrams (communities) and homes set up throughout southern India. The equivalent of what I have done is like an Indian visiting America and signing up for Oprah’s Book Club because he thinks “Oprah” is a funny word. Anyway, if you receive a postcard with this man on it, count yourself blessed, and give him a prominent place in your home—who knows about miracles? . . .

sai baba

and me

so apparently there's a limit on text. if you read the attachment and want to continue reading where it cuts off, send me an e-mail or leave a comment and i'll send the rest.

:: Friends, family, countrymen—

Greetings from a small, fan-cooled room in Bangalore, India. A few quick travel notes:

::More disturbing than the difficulty of understanding the script above an Indian toilet—or, as the case may be, a hole—was my terribly unfortunate seat assignment on the flight from New York to Paris. By most accounts, I had no sane reason to protest (reclining chair, miniscule neighbor, Harry Potter on the telly), until, with maddening non-chalance, the pilot announced that if I “happened” to be sitting on the left side of the plane, I could get a “nice” view of the Northern Lights. For all of us who weren’t on the left side of the plane, and who were Aurora Boree-virgins, I raise my tray table in disgust and kindly request that the pilot take his “nice” view and shove it.
::2 March, 10 AM, Charles de Gaulle Airport

::The transfer from the plane through customs (the green line) and out of the airport was relatively painless. Finding the driver holding a sign with my name on it was like trying to spot your third cousin at graduation. What were all those people doing at the airport at 1 AM? Luckily, my driver was a mousy man, and he managed to gnaw his way to the front of the fence holding back all the faces. I deciphered two of my driver’s first 40 words: “front” and “rear.” Assuming he wasn’t asking how my digestive system was holding up, I guessed and went with “front,” after which he opened the front door for me, and the video game began. Forget merge, throw out right-of-way. Biggest car wins. You would rather lose your horn than your steering wheel. Felt like I was in Frogger.

Finally arrived at my hotel, both terrified and delighted by the ride. Had to knock on the door to get in. The manager tried to charge me more than agreed upon in the online reservation, but, being both anal and grossly quick with math, I managed to dispute the total within 1.7 seconds. I saw the fear in his eyes as he realized that he was dealing with the Rainman of tourists. I only saved $3 in the transaction, but that $3 would prove valuable later on.

How do these light switches work?

I have already seen more people in two hours (and after midnight) than I see in my neighborhood in two days. So many stares—am I greeted or potentially usable?

My hotel room in Mumbai has cable. Apart from some Banghra and Indian MTV, I found only some embarrassing American sitcoms. Apparently, Indians have more sympathy for shows like Dave’s World than Americans do. Who knew Dave Barry was so translatable? Much to my dismay, I changed the channel to find a disturbingly recognizable crystal pulpit and sweat-drenched televangelist—Creflo Dollar is making it big in India.

Things are different here. America sure is a backward place.
::5 March, 2:45 AM, Residency Hotel
Mumbai (Bombay)

::5 March, 7:55 AM to 6 March, 9:00 AM, Udyan Express train to Bangalore

1—box of chewy Spree
1—box of chewy mini SweetTarts
1—cup of tea > what I’ve eaten in the last 24 hours
1—bag of train-station Ruffles
2—Lomotil

Found my train with relative ease. Situated in a 2-tier, 4-bunk sleeper cabin. Industrial linoleum floors, egg-blue vinyl benches, fold-out table at the window, windows non-slideable, funny smell, mirror, no companion yet.

The train station walkway was like the pantry floor of a puppy-in-training, except the dogs here are made in the image of God, the image of God crawling on fours, losing urine and dignity together. Who’s at-fault here?

*Note: there are things I want to avoid in these updates. One, I do not want to be sentimental. As I read recently, or something akin to it, poverty makes a good story, but not a good neighbor. It’s difficult to discuss such things without sounding trite. I am here to learn, especially to make connections between Hinduism’s caste system and India’s social condition, to understand better the connections between Christianity and America’s social condition. To learn how myopic my faith is. To be still. I have many teaching opportunities, indeed, but I have made it clear to my host that I want to be as quiet as possible. Two, if you ever hear me use the word “charming,” please feel free to rebuke me. Charming is reserved for crocheting parties and fairy tales. Charming is a demeaning thing to say about a culture—how can you capture depth with such a mono-valent word?

The fold-out table on the train is two-inches too low. I find this out after I notice the grey stains on my pants. When I left from Memphis, my left eye had been itchy and irritable. Keeps getting worse. I have been winking at a lot of grown men.

Please, Lord, let me share a cabin with a beautiful, witty girl with matches. For evangelistic purposes, of course. Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done, just not single when I get to heaven.

There’s a large bullet-hole in my window. Patched by a big black blob—I’ll probably have a good view of the Northern Lights tonight—right where the blob is. I’m not bitter.

Finally, my companions. Harish, Avinash, and (I can’t pronounce his name, so we just smile a lot). Harish and Bob-I’ll-call-him are importers-exporters. Am I in a Seinfeld episode? They import, install, and service MRI units. We chatted for a while, but when I congratulated them on India’s World Cup cricket victory over Pakistan, our friendship was sealed. Over the course of the day, we discussed cricket, Lagaan, Daler Mendhi, the king of Indian pop, and the difference between Indian and American tobacco. We played a lot of rummy, as well. Harish bought me an Indian omelette for breakfast. Such generous men. Everytime tea or coffee or food came around, we reached for our pockets, like we were in a western shoot-out—he wanted to pay for all of my food.

Avinash is a younger, more western Indian. He likes Pink Floyd, Metallica, and Bryan Adams. Hmm. . . .

Indian men are good spitters. Wild boars wander through the streams, and cows stand on the rail-lines. They (the men) use wax matches—very cool.

My new friends are impressed with my taste in tea (“Ah, yes, Assam—good taste.”)—at least I think they were complimenting my taste rather than the tea’s. I knew all those hours at my coffeeshop drinking Darjeeling and Assam were preparation for some grand moment.

Taking a respite from my cabin to lean out one of the entry doors to catch some un-glassed landscape. The wind hurts my eye, but it’s worth it for a while. Met Eduardo, an architect from Buenos Aires. He was a good man. We had a great discussion on the caste system, on the meaning of happiness, on American ethnocentrism (esp. Americans’ appalling lack of geographical knowledge).

Some initial conclusions upon arriving in Bangalore: It’s all about the seat you’re in.
Also, I must remember not to wipe my eyes with my curry hand.::

::William (his Christian name), my host in Bangalore, took me for breakfast after picking me up from the train station. Thus far, I have had many liters of water and tea, along with four full meals, and I have yet to hear rumblings from my stomach. Thank you, Lord. All of my worries and warnings revolved around my digestive system, but it turns out that I’m suffering from an eye problem, and one that I got in America. William took me to an eye doctor. After a few minutes in the waiting room, I went in. The doctor stuck a piece of wood in my eyeball, and when I flinched, he yelled at me: “You will hurt your eye if you do that.” I refrained from telling him that he was already hurting my eye, so I lose either way. Then he shined a blue light in my eye and noticed a large infection on my cornea. A full-blown eye infection. So he prescribed me some eye drops and eye cream and wrote up the bill: 150 rupees. What would have cost $50 in St. Louis cost me $3 in Bangalore.

So, because of my eye, which keeps me from being able to see for more than 5 minutes at a time, I’m pretty much relegated to staying around the house in Bangalore, which is frustrating. It was nice for the first day, to be able to recuperate, but now it’s somewhat maddening. Hopefully, my eye will be better by the weekend.

So, assuming my eye is on the way to better, I am headed to Muttom Saturday, the fishing village on the Indian Ocean. I’ll help lead some devotionals that first week for the Christians in that area. After that, I’ll be on my own for another week, studying and writing. From there, another day-long train trip back to Bangalore, where I’ll be March 7 to the end of April. While here, I’ll preach a few times at the local church, as well as give six talks at a youth camp during the middle of April. I do appreciate your prayers for these teaching times, that I would learn my place, that I would be relevant rather than clever, that God would teach me things I don’t even realize I need to learn. Then on to the Mudumalai Game sanctuary for three weeks in May. Back to Bangalore for a few weeks, then on a train trip to Bangladesh and into the Himalayas. Back to Bangalore for a few weeks, then back to the States sometime in late June. I recognize already that two to six months isn’t enough to begin to understand India; but I’m not here, I don’t think, to understand India. I’m here, among many things, to understand my place in a global church. Jesus is here.

Please forgive the stream-of-consciousness feel of these e-mails. I have basically reproduced some journal entries, and have tried to avoid redaction. Obviously, I have made some remarks in retrospect, but I think it best, for the purpose of communicating the learning process that I’m undergoing, to allow you to feel my thoughts rather than read a nice, edited travelogue.

The Super Six matches of the Cricket World Cup start in 15 minutes. I don’t want to miss a minute.

Again, please pray for me. For health, for ministry, for an understanding of what Jesus means when he elevates the last seat over the first seat. Sometimes we are handed our seat, but most of the time we have a choice, and if we would honor God and serve men, we must be willing to forego the sensational, even the Northern Lights.

Feel free to write, or even to e-mail, and don’t be afraid to send candy.

Take care,
Jeremy
7 March, 12:30 PM, Bangalore

:: A few days later

My eye seems to be getting better, enough so that I decided I would give the motorcycle my first spin through the neighborhood. Theoretically, keeping in the left lane is simple, but throw in twelve years of driving in the right lane, no lanes, dogs and cows in what would be the lanes, and a motorcycle with bad brakes that requires constant revving to keep from stalling, and all the sudden I’m in a bad episode of CHiPs. I’m John, of course, but with my new moustache and tan, you might mistake me for Ponch.

I woke up this morning swimming in last-night’s drool. It was my first night to sleep all the way through, at least until seven this morning when the neighborhood Indian chipmunk thingies woke me. My beard was 76 degrees with 100% humidity. For the sake of the host family’s pillowsheets, I decided I better shave. So I walked down the street to the local barber, who sized me up, sat me down, and began his art. Indian barbers are terribly proud of their craft; they are taught from childhood, and they don’t have to attend academies with names like Barbazon to receive a piece of paper that does absolutely nothing to make the customer feel better about sitting in a hair place with superlative nomenclature like “super” or “great.” He looked at me with his scissors, and I said, simply, “Short,” pointing to my head and beard. It was the most meticulous cut I have ever had. Nothing electric, just keen scissors and deft hands. After fifteen minutes of cutting and shaping, I had the kind of hair that you see on an old man wearing a ribbed t-shirt in a 50’s magazine advertisement. Or on a serviceman’s sepia-toned photo. Before starting on the beard, he began doing some sort of shiatsu on my head, like a drive-thru car wash for my scalp. He put away the hair scissors and grabbed beard scissors and a straight blade. I began having movie-scene visions, where the beady-eyed, crazed, eastern fundamentalist has a blade to my throat—then I caught myself, laughed, and prayed. After shaving my gnarly beard, he dabbed the nicks with something resembling an ice-cold, room-temperature bar of soap (a stypic?), which stung like mad, then he soaked me with some soothing, minty aftershave, which smelled strangely like the dessert I had eaten an hour earlier at lunch, then applied some sort of cologne that stung like nettle and smelled like the middle pages of a really bad fashion magazine. I opened my eyes to see the finished product, and I realized that in India, when you go for a cut, it is assumed, unless you say otherwise, that you would rather keep your “moose,” or, as Americans know it and mock it, the moustache. And my moustache, which has been growing for a considerable time, bent over like my motorcycle’s handlebars—I looked, by all respects, like a colonial Brit.

Off for Muttom tomorrow—do pray for my weeks there, that they would be beneficial to the people I serve, to the church at-large, and to me.

In case anyone cares, India won its first Super Six match in the World Cup of Cricket, and I am thoroughly hooked.

Take care,
Jeremy

:: Sunday, March 8, 2003—Bangalore :: It is my first Sunday morning in India. As in America, the TV is full of worship services, though much of the worship is suspect as worship. The Health and Wealth Gospel is creeping into India, the result being that much of what has constituted for Christianity here (Catholicism, Syrian Orthodoxy, Anglicanism) is being slain in the spirit of Pentecostalism. I don’t know what to think.

Just like America, the children in my host’s house held on to the last possible second of morning cartoons before tucking in shirts and heading out for church. On the drive over, I realized that I may actually be getting used to driving conditions in India. The temptation for me is to consider Indian roads disorderly, unorganized, and generally suicidal, but I begin to realize that this is an American critique. Rather than comparing the two and making judgments regarding propriety, I think it’s best to see the beauty in diversity, so to speak. The fact is, for all of the honking and swerving and putting my hands over my eyes, I have yet to see anyone hit anything, including animals, and I have seen no middle fingers shoot out of windows. This is a paradigm that I’m becoming acquainted with and beginning to value for its own terminology—much like, I’m sure, worship in India will become to me.

Bangalore Presbyterian Church, the only Presbyterian church in South India (imagine one Presbyterian church in the state of Texas, and you have an idea), sits in the upstairs of a store-front, renting the property from a fitness organization. The externals, both of the building and the behavior, correspond to much of what I’m familiar with back home: an old lady with glasses plays the piano; the praise song leader is gregarious and sings the chorus too many times; I check my zipper on the way in.

I found, during the service, that the people at this church seemed just as apathetic and lethargic as the people in the churches I’ve visited back home—this is a parallel that I didn’t want to discover. Most of the reports that American churches receive of overseas churches are that they are passionate and Spirit-filled and infectious (some of them are, I’m sure, but not all). This makes us, at home, feel apathetic and lethargic and not the way we’re supposed to be. I think, though, that to expect the church in America to look the same as the church in India or South America is to make the same mistake as to expect the church in Bangalore to behave like the church in St. Louis—if they do, maybe that’s okay, but to expect it is to cookie-cut the accidents of worship. The essentials should be universal, but the accidents should be cultural and individual.

The pastor of the church here says that the main problem is that people don’t see church as a regular thing. The problem in most American churches is that people, both church-goers and non-, do see church as a regular thing. The church is so steeped in cliché and is so predictable that she has lost her ability to shock her neighbors with creativity and goodness.

The idea of caste is so ingrained in the Indian sensibility, that even it, a Hindu concept, one officially outlawed but still practiced, has crept into the church. Many of the potential leaders in the Christian church want to be elders, not for the purpose of serving, but for the purpose of being of a higher “caste” of Christian leader. This is not my own observation, but that of church leaders here.

In opposition to Hinduism and Buddhism, however, Christianity offers a unique hope to those whose loved ones have died. Hindus hope that a loved one’s karma carries him/her to a better life next time, one that will likely be separate from his own; Christianity, however, assures the widow that she will both recognize and fellowship with her loved one for eternity. Pastoral visits, and the ability to minister to the grieved biblically, are some of the most important tasks for an Indian pastor. I only hope that their version of seeing loved ones again doesn’t degenerate into the universalistic “we’ll meet again” mentality that every American seems to feel that he has the right to claim.

The Christian church here seems largely disconnected from the progressive, younger generation. I wonder who will love them.

For all of this, I’m excited to better understand the church in India, to continue to understand what worship is supposed to look like and feel like, both in its particulars and its universals::

::Travel Tips::

::If you want one coffee, or one ticket or one of anything, do not hold up your index finger; otherwise, you may be inviting someone to go do number one in your coffee, or on your ticket. Likewise, do not hold your pinky up, as number two is much worse. Hopefully, America will never send a large delegate to an Indian sporting event; if this happens, and the fans begin cheering and holding up the “we’re number one” fingers as they usually do, the stadium officials may begin to panic::

::On an Indian train, if you are caught riding without a ticket, you will receive either a $10 fine or 3 months in jail. Hopefully, you get to choose::

::If you purchase a bottle of Coke from a street vendor, you are expected to drink it on the spot and return the bottle. I was not aware of this until I had walked off with my bottle a few times. People kept pointing at me and saying “bottle” as they laughed. Walking around with a bottle of Coke is like taking the ashtray out of your car and walking down the street with it for personal use::

:: March 10—13, Muttom ::

Muttom is a small fishing village on the southern tip of India. I am staying at the Rock Bible Center, a facility overlooking the Arabian Sea. There is not much to do here besides walking and standing in the ocean. The sand on the beaches is a marvelous brown-and-black swirl, like marble rye.

Walked to the neighboring village early on my first morning to watch the fishermen come in and sell their catch. The whole village was there, everyone crowding in and bidding for fish that I’ve never seen and couldn’t name for you. A kid named Bop-San came up to me and started talking in Tamil. I can say only “hello,” “sorry,” “thank you,” “please,” “bus,” “help,” and “please, no more food,” so our conversation was a bit one-sided. Bop-San was clearly the clown kid of the village, the only one not afraid to engage the white man, possibly the first in the village in years; this kid had the same mannerisms, control of audience, and bravado that you see in class clowns in every classroom in America. He kept trying out his English on me (something that most Indian children seem desperate to do), shooting off a word, waiting for my approval and repetition of the word, then trying another. He saw a motorcycle and hoped that “Suzuki” is an English word. I just smiled and said, “Yes, Bop-San, Suzuki, Suzuki”; I didn’t have the heart to break it to him.

The two children who live at the Bible Center are great kids. The older, Danny, follows me everywhere and has exceptional English. He repeats words over and over until he says it just like I, and he keeps trying sentences until he gets it right. Generally, when it comes to children and language, I feel that I’m getting a rare glimpse into the patience of God and a divine love of monotony—patience and love that I don’t find much in myself.

I feel like I could become a stand-up comic in India. 40% of the people I meet laugh when they look at me, the other 60% join in when I begin speaking. These people think I’m hilarious, and I will allow myself to believe that I am the funniest American comedian in Muttom, India.

I stumbled upon about 30 village kids playing cricket this afternoon. I’ve been wanting to play since I got here, so I yelled out “Suzuki,” and they waved me onto the cricket pitch. I had been playing for five minutes when I looked up and realized the whole village had gathered to watch the American play cricket.

Apparently, my host picked the wrong fish in the morning. I’m sick. I spent the afternoon and evening filling my bathing bucket with partially digested rice and bread and curry. Most vomit burns when it comes up, but curry vomit is the worst. There’s nothing like vomiting in an un-air-conditioned room, alone, on the southern tip of India to make you homesick, which is a much better sickness, at least at the time. I had frighteningly vivid dreams between my round of bucket-fillling. I dreamed that I was sitting on the couch at my childhood home drinking Coke and watching the Dukes of Hazzard, my mother folding clothes. I dreamed that my childhood crush tracked me down in India to tell me that she always had a crush on me. I dreamed things that touched the most familiar, lonely, and longing parts of me. When you’re on your back, in a hot room, alone, vomiting, and you feel like you’re right up against everything, up against your flesh, your longing for something familiar intensifies, and its absence intensifies the loneliness, and the homesickness is almost unbearable. I admitted to myself, during that time, that it’s okay for me to love America. I spend a lot of time trying to think of the things that I don’t like about America, but I need to spend more time listing the beautiful things—it’s okay to love my culture. And I have a new-found respect for single missionaries.

I also dreamed that I went home, collected eyeglasses, and brought them back to Muttom for the villagers. I saw no one in Muttom wearing eyeglasses, and I’m positive that not everyone has 20/20 vision. Maybe that’s why they laugh when they look at me.

Fortunately, my sickness only lasted through the night, and I spent the rest of the next day in bed reading and napping. When I felt safe enough to get out of bed, I walked down to the beach with Paul, Danny’s father. Paul and I can’t speak with each other, as neither of us knows the other’s language well-enough, but when a huge wave ran in and crashed over us, we looked at each other and started laughing, and I understood common grace better than any verbose theologizing could have communicated.

At night, I stand on the roof and listen. The quality of the silence here is thick, the only sound coming from the light of the stars. It is a foreign darkness, and it’s magnetic::

:: March 16, Nagercoil, the Church of South India ::

All the Christians in the town attend here. There are probably 500 people here, the men and women sitting on separate sides like, to my western mind, a junior high retreat. All of the people I’ve asked about this agree that this is a custom that must change, but centuries of doing are not easily undone, especially in an Anglican system where the bishop takes the heat for upsetting whole towns.

When the pastor sat in his chair on the podium, a gecko shot out from behind his seat and ran up the wall and hid behind a clock. Nobody gasped.

I had no idea what was being said, but when the people stood, I stood, and when the organist played a familiar tune, I sang in English. The Tamil singing was beautiful, something like the singing in the movie The Mission. One song had a refrain that included the word “Amen,” which I belted out everytime it came around. I felt like Mr. Bean in the episode where he mumbles through the Gloria Patri until the “Hallelujah,” where he sings with great passion. This thought made me laugh. A crow was flying around in the rafters, and I was praying that it wouldn’t number two on me, like some divine judgment on the Westerner.

People yawned and nodded during the service, just like in America. Though it’s obvious, it hit me, meaningfully, for the first time, that there is no pure church anywhere. And, thus, I wondered, what am I hoping to find in India that I haven’t found already? That there is no pure church is good news if you have a realistic, biblical assessment of the church, bad news if you are a cynic who hates the “hypocrisy” of the church, because a pure church doesn’t exist, and if you are a cynic of the good variety, the kind who is cynical in hopes of finding a better answer, then you won’t, because the church was, is, and always will be full of hypocrites—it’s the only safe place for them. I find that I am guilty of the bad brand of cynicism, criticizing the American church for the sake of lifting myself up rather than hoping to find ways to make it more glorious.

The only English words the pastor said the whole morning: “Christ forgives sins.” He looked right at me when he said them::

I went out for some sights today. Visited Kanyakumari, the Lands’ End of India, where the Indian Ocean, the Arabian Sea, and the Bay of Bengal meet. I stood in line to take a ferry out to some Hindu monuments, one of which is a huge statue of a venerated idol, the Statue of Liberty of India. It was here, waiting in line, that I realized something new about Indians at-large: they’re terrible at standing in line. This, for me, the perfectionist, is something that I am unwilling to label as culturally okay. I stood in a line at a roadside vendor for five minutes waiting to buy a bag of chips because I didn’t have the heart to criticize the ten people who successively cut in front of me. When I dropped my head in defeat, the seller felt sorry for me and yelled for me over the heads of the line-cutters. I don’t know what to do about this. Some 12 years of primary and secondary schooling keeps me from allowing myself to be a cutter.

I visited a small church in the middle of another remote village. The church is now Syrian Orthodox, but it was supposedly the first church in southern India planted by Thomas, Jesus’ beloved believing doubter. Years after he left for Madras, the church suffered and eventually lost its members. For centuries, the building sat unused save for lizards and wildflowers, until a new group of villagers decided to use the building. The new group was Hindu, and when local Christians heard of their plans, they decided that they better not let their historical marker become a temple. For years, the two parties argued over who had rights to the building, until one of the locals cleared out the foliage and exposed a foundation stone, which had a cross clearly engraved in it. When I stepped inside and saw that cross, my knees buckled a bit, and I was moved by that small cube of rock more than any of the lavish, historical temples and monuments that I have seen elsewhere::

On my last night in Nagercoil, I was asked to lead a Bible study for the local YMCA chapter, which is still a Christian organization. I was told that I had 45 minutes, which I gladly took advantage of, as I would be required to speak in half-speed. Moments before walking to the meeting, I was told that I would have 20 minutes instead. Try chopping 60% of your well-planned, intricately connected talk, and you end up with a stand-up routine consisting of one pastor entering a bar and no punchline. For someone who places, wrongly, so much of his identity in communicating from the pulpit, it was a rare and much-needed moment of utter humiliation. It only confirmed for me how important indigenous leadership and training is. Of all the problems associated with missionary endeavor, I can think of none worse than insisting on planting your own culture along with the church::

The train ride back from Nagercoil to Bangalore, a 17-hour trip, was one of the most beautiful road-trips I have been on. Most of the time, I sat in the door-frame between cars, legs hanging out, watching the greens and the people blur past. I hope the train system in America will be revitalized soon. At large train stops, you usually have five minutes to get out and stretch or find food. I was in desperate need of a Coke, and it took me a few minutes to reach a vendor with a cold Coke in a plastic bottle that I could safely take with me. Then the whistle sounded, and I had a 500-yard run down a crowded platform to jump back on my car. I made it just as the train reached my maximum-running speed, and I jumped on without losing my sandals. I gloried in the moment, one I’ve dreamed about since childhood. Safety regulations are almost absent here. For instance, I saw the other day a little girl riding on the gas tank of her father’s motorcycle, a newspaper shielding her head from the rain, flapping in her father’s face—this is a child’s paradise::

::Sample Price List::
Internet access - .40/hour
16-oz. Coke - .30
new CD (American CD) – 7.00
beer - .70 for a draft pint
gas – 3.20 a gallon
leather sandals – 6.00
postcard - .10

In other news, for those of you who don’t know, I found out that I was accepted into the graduate school I applied for. I’m going for an MFA-Creative NonFiction, and the school, Eastern Washington University, is in Spokane, Washington (if anyone has any connections in Spokane, please let me know, as I’ll want to look into housing as soon as possible). I was delighted and surprised to be accepted, but, unless I receive a teaching assistantship, I can’t afford to go. I found out a few days ago that I have been given, along with 4 others, a recommendation for the assistantship. It’s not a done deal yet, but it seems very likely, and if I receive it, then I will likely be heading to Spokane in August; I’ll let you know about the assistantship when I know. With these new developments, my travel plans have changed a bit. After only two weeks here, I realize how much I depend on and value my community of friends in St. Louis (certainly, I depend on and value all of my friends and family, but the ones I live with play a more time-consuming role). If I am leaving for Washington in August, I want to spend as much time as possible in St. Louis before I leave. Thus, rather than staying here four months, I’ll likely change that to two or three. Add in the fact that my money probably wouldn’t last four months, and I am sure that I will be home by late May.

So, my tentative schedule:
March 19 – April 12: Bangalore
I’ll preach here on March 30 and do a series of six talks at a youth camp the second weekend in April.
April 13 – April 26: Mudumalai Game Sanctuary
April 27 – April 30: Bangalore
Preach on April 27
May 1 – May 24: travel to different cultural centers in India, visiting different churches. Right now, the only place that I’m sure I want to visit is Calcutta, which is the literary and cultural capital of India. Obviously, some of this depends on the state of the impending war, which would make it relatively unsafe for me to travel in some of the northern, Muslim-dominant areas.

Today, I bought a book of poetry by Rabindranath Tagore, one of India’s leading literary figures. The poem I’ve typed here strikes me deeply. I don’t have time to explain here, but read it (aloud, preferably), and try to import the sensuality and imagery.

“Day’s End”

Day’s end has come, the world is darkening—
It is too late for further sailing.
On the bank, a girl, I ask her with a smile,
‘On whose foreign shore am I landing?’
She leaves without a word, her head bowed,
Her full water-jar overflowing.
These steps shall be my mooring.

On the forest’s thick canopy shade is falling,
I find the sight of this country pleasing.
Nothing stirs or moves, neither water nor leaves,
Birds throughout the forest are sleeping.
All I can hear is bracelet on jar
Down the empty path, sadly tinkling.
I find this gold-lit country pleasing.

A golden trident of Shiva glitters,
A distant temple-lantern glimmers.
A marble road gleams in the shade,
It is sprinkled with fallen bakul-flowers.
Rows of roofs lurk amidst groves,
At the sight, my traveller’s heart quivers.
A distant temple-lantern glimmers.

From the king’s far palace the breeze brings a melody,
It floats through the sky, a song in rag Purvi.
The fading scene draws me on—
I feel a strange detached melancholy.
Travel and exile lose their appeal,
Impossible hopes no longer call me.
The sky resounds with rag Purvi.

On the forest, on the palace, night is descending—
It is too late for further sailing.
All that I need is a place for my head,
And I’ll end this life of buying and selling.
As she winds her way she keeps her eyes low,
The girl with the jar at her hip, overflowing.
These steps shall be my mooring.

:: Please forgive the length. My time here is composed of silences punctuated by movement. I am forced to run raw into the world, the way that time runs for children, where boredom is so immediate and profound. Time seems endless here, unfolding, the antithesis of flashbacks, and I begin to feel like a scientist, noticing the smallest movements of an ant, the buzz of traffic lights, the chaotic patterns of mopeds—not because I have to, but because they are there, and I feel connected. Writing all these things, though they are snippets, incomplete thoughts, and not particularly well-written, is a hiatus from the long stretches of silence, of thought turned in upon itself. Some of this is good, but I find that I tire of analyzing everything, especially myself, and by sitting and typing, I know that another party sits on the other end, and even if I can’t hear you, I know that we are interacting with familiarity, and I miss that more than anything.

All my love,
Jeremy
:: 19.03.2003 :: Coffee Day Cyber Café, Brigade Road, Bangalore ::

:: 22.03.03 :: Bangalore

I’ve begun settling into a routine here in the city, both routine in its consistency and routine in its similarity to my life in St. Louis. On the average morning, I wake at 8:00, check for new mosquito and ant bites, brush my teeth, eat some Spree, read the paper (back to front, as most Indians do, primarily to check in on the cricket world), and pack my bag. I walk to the corner and find an auto-rickshaw, which takes me to the MG (Mahatma Gandhi)/Brigade section of town, the bookstore/food/clothes center for the young and progressive in India. The rickshaw costs me about .80 for a ten-minute gauntlet-run through the traffic, and the excitement’s worth every penny. Adrenalin-junkies would do well to abandon their bungee cords for a steady diet of Indian city-driving. I do have access to a motorcycle, but that requires taking a driving test, and I would rather postpone my ulcers for middle age. I also have a bicycle, which I’m prone to use from time to time, but riding a bicycle through the city, without glasses or a military-brand gas-mask, is like, as I have mentioned to a few, getting smacked in the face with a vacuum bag. I just finished reading a book by a local author, who describes riding through the traffic in Bombay as getting slapped in the face by a dirty diaper. I suppose the cities do have their differences.

So I arrive in town, go to my favorite internet café and check my empty inbox, then find my favorite spot to sit, drink tea, read, and watch people walk by watching me. Then I walk around and end up talking to a few locals on the street, covering everything from the war to Ricky Martin, neither of which is my favorite subject, but when Ricky Martin comes up, I try to steer the conversation to war, often by asking if Saddam’s living la vida loca, as well.

When the sun begins to set, I find my way home, where I’m greeted by the Cartoon Network. I had an especially tiring day Thursday, and when I returned home, one of my old, forgotten favorites was on the screen: The Laff-A-Lympics. For those unacquainted with this work of animated genius, the Laff-A-Lympics is the All-Star of cartoons, wherein the great characters from different cartoons gather together for a shot at glory. There are three teams: the Scooby Doobies, the Really Rottens, and the Yogi Yahooies. As a child, I was partial to the Scooby Doobies, mostly because I was partial to Velma, who has, herself, replaced Daphne as the sexiest cartoon character. Among the participants in the Laff-A-Lympics, for the nostalgic among you, are Doggie Daddy and Augie Doggy, Quick-Draw McGraw, Wally Gator, Huckleberry Hound, Grape Ape and Daffy Doodle, Captain Caveman, the Blue Falcon and Dyno-Mutt (Dog Blunder), the Dalton Brothers and Daisy Mayhem, and SnagglePuss, everyone’s favorite Howard Cosell of the cartoon world. Fortunately, the cartoons are aired in English, because it’s hard enough to understand Scooby in English, moreso in Hindi.

I have met a number of lovely people on the streets, and I’ve set up lunch times with a few of them; today, I’m meeting with Ravi Shankar, a medical student from Sri Lanka, who wants to talk more about the war, digital cameras, and MTV, in no particular order.

Shopping for postcards a week ago, I stumbled across a picture of an Indian sitting in a Yoga pose, smiling. It was nothing extraordinary, except for the fact that his hair, a legitimate afro, fills half the postcard. I giggled to myself, snatched as many as possible, and mailed about four or five. Later, I found out that his name is Shriya Sai Baba, and he is possibly the most influential man in India outside of the Prime Minister and Sachin Tendulkar, the Barry Bonds of the cricket world. He has allegedly performed thousands of miracles, often producing gifts for people out of thin air. He has a following rivaling that of any celebrity in America, and he has ashrams (communities) and homes set up throughout southern India. The equivalent of what I have done is like an Indian visiting America and signing up for Oprah’s Book Club because he thinks “Oprah” is a funny word. Anyway, if you receive a postcard with this man on it, count yourself blessed, and give him a prominent place in your home—who knows about miracles?

In the evenings, I usually report to William, my host, on the day’s events. For instance, two days ago, I spotted a large group of twenty-somethings playing cricket near the MG/Brigade area. I walked over, sat down, and watched for a while, hoping madly that they would invite me to play. After twenty minutes, I invited myself, and they welcomed me with smiles and uncertainty. This was my first cricket game with guys my age, and, like a first date, I was both nervous and delighted. After playing the field for a while, my team went to bat, and they stuck the bat in my hand first (if you don’t know, a cricket bat is usually a bit shorter than a baseball bat, and it’s rectangular, like a big, thick blade. It’s about 5 inches wide and two inches thick, the handle, like a baseball bat, about 8 inches long.) On my first pitch, I sent the ball flying for a six (the equivalent of a home run in baseball). On the second ball, another six. I was in. During my at-bat for the next game, I had reeled off three sixes in a row, whereupon all the guys started laughing and chanting “Sachin, Sachin,” the highest compliment to be payed to any cricket batter. Another bowler (the pitcher) was due up, and he refused, claiming that I was an American baseball player. Eventually, he agreed, and I smashed his first offering out of the yard onto MG Road (the equivalent of Delmar in St. Louis or Union in Memphis), the longest ball they had ever seen hit. Afterwards, I was congratulated by all the guys, named man of the match, and invited back as often as I like. I felt as powerful as Sai Baba. So, in a show of gratitude, I took one of the guys, the leader of the group, to the local pub and bought him a beer, whereupon we drank Kingfishers, talked as much as we could, and watched India’s semifinal match against Kenya, which it won easily. Tomorrow, Sunday, is the final against Australia, the hated, cocky, most talented cricket team on the planet. Tomorrow, in effect, is Super Bowl Sunday, and all of India will be watching. It’s such a stroke of grace to have come during the Cricket World Cup, as I’m able to use my interests and talents to connect with people through a native offering.

I share stories like this with William, and we talk about how nice it would be to have native guys doing the same thing that I’m doing as a form of outreach for the church. Unfortunately, Presbyterian Theological Seminary in north India, where his potential church-workers train, has little to no teaching on worldview and cultural engagement. This, as William told me, is the main reason he wanted me to come, to develop a love for India, to understand the culture better, to do exactly what I have been doing of my own accord down in the city, so that I would consider coming in the future for a few months at a time to teach classes on worldview and cultural engagement at PTS. Most of the guys who come out of there have adopted, intentionally or not, a “Christ Against Culture” mentality, to use Niebuhr’s terminology. They end up with a hostile stance toward pop culture and apologetic issues, which is detrimental both to the church and those outside the church. What they need (we all need) is a better understanding of common grace, of the image of God in man, of the way to treat non-believers with dignity and respect, to affirm the things that are good about them, to engage people on those levels, not as a form of manipulation or agenda-hiding, but as a way to learn to love people different from themselves. This is my constant struggle, and I’m glad to have a chance to learn what that means in another culture, to see, most importantly, how universal those principles are.

Yesterday, I saw a guy walking around with a big swastika on his shirt. I had no idea that there are neo-Nazis in India. A few hours later, a delivery truck drove by; on the side was an advertisement for Swastik Milk. Who knew the Third Reich had such power over the dairy industry?

Also yesterday, I decided to visit City Market, the busy, colorful, nasal violation of Bangalore. There are basically three purchasing options: shirts and socks, suspicious electronic equipment, and insect-tenements, which they call fruit stands. If you have watched National Geographic specials on Indian bazaars and general city life, this is what you have seen. It was absolutely astonishing. Unfortunately, my cavalier attitude toward traveling, wherein I get excited at the prospect of getting lost, wherein I assume nothing bad could happen to me, almost got me into trouble. It has become apparent to me that my dearth of clue-tracking, mystery-solving skills disqualifies me from riding in the Mystery Machine with Scooby and the gang (which is unfortunate only as it would disqualify me from flirting with Velma). I should have been suspicious at the millions of glass fragments paving the streets; at the man in an off-center, back alley waving his finger at me and yelling “no city market, no city market”; at the noticeable lack of westerners in the area (I looked like a grain of salt in a pepper shaker). This morning, reading the paper, I saw the headline: “Riots Rock City Market.” Apparently, after noon prayers, local Muslims began rioting, protesting the war, burning George Bush in effigy. Jinkies.

I wondered this morning what I would have done had I been in the thick of things. If Muslims started spitting toward me or throwing rocks at me or something worse, how would I have reacted? My idealistic, unrealistic side says that I would have felt only sorrow, regret, and pity over the hatred of the Muslims and the wrongdoings of both Christians and Americans, that I would have spread out my arms, stammered “I love you,” and taken the blows. The realistic side of me, however, admits that I would have probably been angry and resentful, as well—who knows how the Spirit works in such moments? I do not know what to think of the war, and I do justice to no one involved by offering an either/or answer to the situation. War, religion, individual souls are too complex, glorious, and polluted to offer a good or bad label. The ability to love a person who calls me his enemy is not within me—I do not, as Coupland writes in Life After God, have it in me to love. It must come from somewhere, someone else.

Off for a Scooby Snack,
Jeremy

:: 26.03.03, Bangalore ::

Back from a two-day road trip to Chennai (Madras). I know now why the trains here are so popular. Traveling the main roads in southern India is like, well. . . remember as a child when your uncle, the fun one, picked you up, turned you around so your back was facing him, sat you on his knee, grabbed your rear belt-loop, and said something about “riding the horsey”? When he started knee-jarring your brains out? That feeling, and I’m not exaggerating. On the brighter side, I finally saw my first monkeys, and I instantly became, again, every child in America who wants a monkey for a pet.

Last week, after another round of cricket with the boys, I met a guy named Daran. We stood on a pile of dirt near a busy intersection and talked for an hour, well past sundown. His English was surprisingly good, even if he talked more rapidly than most auctioneers. Actually, the pace was refreshing, closer to my actual speech than most. Still, it’s labor to listen, to strain my eyes and ears to make out individual words, often recognizing them a sentence later before I can incorporate them into the discussion. That’s what’s so difficult about conversing in India, in any non-native speaking context, I think. And I realize again how carelessly and selfishly I listen to most people much of the time. Listening, being quick and careful to hear, is so easy to forget when the words, their cadence, their tone, are so familiar. The parallel with the way I read Scripture, hear sermons, and pray is painfully clear. Here is one of the lessons I’ve been looking for. And this obviously difficult, obviously obvious listening is the reason, Daran says, that he wants to keep talking. It was painful to hear him tell me that I’m the first American he’s ever had the desire to talk to, because the ones he has met all have their attentions and ears turned self-ward. I can think of nothing more hospitable than asking someone, who has nothing physically apparent to offer, a question, and actually taking the time to listen to his answer, listen well enough to produce new questions in response.

Daran and I have spent much time together, talking, riding the bus, eating. He’s 26, an avid reader, a graduate of business school, unemployed. While he looks for work to be able to take care of his brothers and father, who is grieving from his wife’s recent death, he spends his time meeting with me. Of all that has happened to me thus far, this is the first time I have felt honored (though I have been honored and haven’t listened well enough to realize it). We’ve covered everything from books to sex to religion. We’ve had wonderful discussions about the nature of man (what it means to be human), the nature of God (whether He loves all the same), the nature of religion, the nature of nature. He asked what I thought about different religions, whether we’re not all seeking the same God, and will God take that into account? As creatures created for worship, this is an important question. Rather than lay on him a big theological answer, which I’m prone to do, I began asking questions in return, and we got to the point where we were able to talk beneficially about universalism, the role of sincerity and whether it’s enough for God, about the classic “walking up the same mountain” illustration. In response to the illustration, I asked if he were asking this question, as well, which he affirmed, and I asked him what he was certain he could assume about the question. The only certainty, he said, is that he’s asking the question. The uncertainty, he admitted, with refreshing honesty, is that the only way to have such knowledge is to be above the mountain looking down on the converging paths, and to do so would imply being “above” humanity—in essence, divine himself. I left the question there, and praised God for the opportunity to talk about important things, real questions, to answer to a God who is sovereign, so that I don’t have to try and force answers down someone’s throat when the silences between discourse beg for time to think.

Later that day, Daran took me to a friend’s house to watch the cricket final. The house was a ten by ten foot room above a mechanic shop, ten guys sardined on the couch and the floor, eating, drinking, smoking, betting on batsmen. I hadn’t stepped two bare feet into the room before they were pulling up a chair for me and handing me a plate full of food. So much hospitality. India lost the match, but the five hours were joyous and generous, and I am grateful. Do pray for my meetings with Daran, for ears to hear, for respectful questions, for a discerning heart, for Daran’s heart. Daran’s a Muslim, though mostly nominal, and I’m thrilled to learn from him. Also, do pray for him to find a job and work toward a passport, which he’s eager to do.

I went to my first Indian tiffen a few days ago, the Indian version of a buffet. I sat in the waiting room with about 50 other people and began wondering how long it would take before they got to my name on the list, especially as nobody seemed to be getting ushered into the dining room, and why everyone was taking so long to eat. “Such slow bussing,” I mused to myself—I could have had a chicken-fried steak and a bowl of soupy ice cream by now. Then a man called a number, and everyone jumped up, another case of not knowing how to stand in line and wait turns, I thought, proud of my local knowledge. Then, in my second auctioneering parallel of the day, the numbers were flying around the room—25, 33, 45, do I have a 45—and the whole of us stampeded into the dining room. Apparently, everyone enters at once, eats at once, is supposed to leave at once. Daran and I sat down at a four-person table, I taking the seat across from him. Then the host came over, smiled, and pointed to the seat next to Nisar. I guess Indians are supposed to sit side-by-side to talk during a meal. Interesting.

On the road to Chennai yesterday, we stopped for a bathroom break, which, in southern India, involves standing on the side of the road. During my break, I heard some surprisingly beautiful noises: two or three hundred children singing at a school some distance off the road. I was mesmerized, left standing unzipped on the side of an Indian roadway, staring at children, listening to them sing. After I realized the potential impropriety of the situation, I fixed myself and scanned the crowd of children. Near the back, in the corner, stood a boy, shirt un-tucked, giggling, making fart noises with his hand and armpit. I laughed. Some things are universal.

So we reversed the car to get back on the road, and I heard what I thought were the notes to a familiar hymn, midi-like, a bit too fast. It was the car’s reverse song. Apparently, Indian cars are equipped with synthesized music to alert drivers to their reversal. In contrast to the annoying, over-loud beeps of industrial reverse notes in America, it was a nice sound. And most cars are equipped with a selection of songs. William’s car has three options, and I look forward to moving the switch when he’s not looking, to hear the other songs. The other day, in the city, I saw a souped-up, neon-laden car reversing, and I swear I heard the notes to Michael Jackson’s “Beat It”—a fitting tune for the occasion.

Yesterday, slogging around Chennai, I passed this building sign: “Excellent Circumcision Center.” In retrospect, I should hope that the “excellent” is superfluous, but, in the city, who knows? I suppose, though unnecessary, it is both attractive and comforting. After that, a kid came up to me and started singing “Sweet Child O’Mine,” a Guns ‘N’ Roses song that was popular in the late 80’s. I didn’t know whether to laugh, cry, punch him in the teeth, or videotape him. I decided to get out my video camera, but he stopped singing. So I put it away, started the tune back up, and we honored Axl together.

On the drive home, I saw a man grab his kid by the legs, turn it upside down, and dunk it into a roadside pond, for a bath, I suppose. Goat farmers do things their own way.

One of the difficulties in speaking the local language, apart from my limited vocabulary, is that most Indians have trouble pronouncing the letter “r.” When it comes out, it sounds like a “d.” Thus, what I read in my book as “nanri” (Tamil for “thank you”), is understood here as “nandi.” I started thinking about this, and I began sounding out “r’s” as “d’s,” trying to figure out the lingual connection between the two—why the difficulty? I ended up trying to roll my “r,” and when I couldn’t, as I never have been able to, I realized that if I were a Mexican, I would have a speech impediment. This changes my whole outlook on things.

This coming Monday, I’m taking a train to Kolkatta (Calcutta) to visit for a week or so. Apart from being the literary and cultural center of India, Kolkatta is home to Rose Aylmer, who died because of an addiction to pineapples. I fully intend on visiting her grave.

On a somber note, I covet your prayers for a family member of mine who was recently diagnosed with cancer. This person is, outwardly, optimistic and calm going into initial chemotherapy, but it is a terrifying thing for all involved. I have been reading some poetry by R.S. Thomas, and I came across a piece called “Which,” which is a fitting place for me to stop writing and begin praying and reflecting.

“Which”

And in the book I read:
God is love. But lifting
My head, I do not find it
so. Shall I return

to my book and, between
print, wander an air
heavy with the scent
of this one word? Or not trust

language, only the blows that
life gives me, wearing them
like those red tokens with which
an agreement is sealed?

Fondly,
Jeremy ::

:: 27.03.03, Bangalore::

Warning: Due to the graphic nature of the following, you may want to put down any food you’re eating. Parents are advised to send their children to play with something.

Yesterday, I became a local. I have done many things here to begin to accumulate local status, but yesterday may have put me over the top, or at least the bottom, as things turn out. Despite all my best intentions and packing plans, I managed to find myself in public, in a state of intestinal panic, in a bathroom, without the tree products to which I’m accustomed. In short, my left hand ceased to be a mere formality. My left hand, if no other part of me, became Indian.

To update you on plans, I’m preaching in town next Sunday, then trying to catch a train Wednesday to Kolkatta, where I hope to spend a week. Then back to Bangalore for a week and a half. After that, off to Mudumalai Game Sanctuary for a week and a half, then off to Mysore to help with the church’s youth camp. I’ll be arriving back in Bangalore the 4th of May, shortly after which I plan on flying home. I appreciate your prayers.

I’ve been sending out catch-up updates to many people, and I’ve found, to my dismay, that a couple of my documents, the first and second updates, at least, aren’t working too swell. I think the computer ate some bad fish. If you find, in reading, that things don’t seem to flow too well, it’s quite possibly my writing, but it also may be a bad file. If that’s the case, do e-mail me, as I’m in the process of re-typing the first two so I can send them out again.

Sorry for the short update, but I have a cricket match to attend in 11 minutes.

Take care,
Jeremy ::

::
Though, as I've explained already, I decided against taking the road test for my motorcycle license. I did, out of curiosity, look through the written portion of the test to get a feel for what I would have been up against. I know pressure, as I took the ACT four times and actually went shopping for an engagement ring once, but none of that prepares you for sitting in an un-air-conditioned room, breathing coconut-tinged diesel fumes, trying to identify Indian road signs. Also, some of the questions and answers don't fit my paradigm. For example, one of the test questions reads as follows:

"If you are issued a traffic violation, how should you feel?"

A: to change your attitude and do better next time
B: unconcerned
C: proud

The answer, and I triple-checked, is C. I won't offer my reaction, but let you figure out what to think.

As I was driving home last night, I passed a street named “McPherson.” In addition to being surprised at such a Western name, I became nostalgic, as McPherson is the name of my street in St. Louis. Right down from McPherson is a pork shop named “The Pork Shop.” I thought of barbecue, and I wanted to be in Memphis. One of these days, I think I'll walk in and order a Pork Shop pork chop, if only to amuse myself. So you know, my favorite Indian staple is the chapati, a greasy, wheat-based flat-bread.

I see many foreign things during my daily travels, one of which is expected and still-shocking squalor. You’ve probably noticed my failure to speak much of it in the updates. Among other reasons, when people, especially missionaries, write home about squalor, as I’ve read from missionaries before, the effect (on me, at least) is that it somehow obliges people to listen to your moralizing: how it changes one’s perspective on life. Because I tend to be ungracious, I sometimes wonder if these people don’t look for squalor, thinking that it’s the only way that a trip to a third-world country could possibly change them. I realize, as you do, that poverty of any kind is awful, grievous, and sobering, and, thus, not to be taken lightly, but I know this without being in it myself. I look into my own heart and see it. I look at the incarnation, and I begin to understand it. While affirming the seriousness of physical poverty, and at risk of sounding crass, I feel that I have so much squalor of my own to deal with that I can’t speak meaningfully about others’ poverty, at least not more than you already know or surmise. It’s too much for me to handle. This is why we have a Savior.

Despite the abundance of poverty, I am always being blind-sided by beauty. The area where I hang out and play cricket, etc., is surrounded by Bangalore Army complexes. A few days ago, two men in camouflage walked through the middle of our cricket pitch. No one said anything to them, which wasn’t surprising. What did surprise me was the fact that the two of them were holding hands. I knew, before coming, if only for having watched A Thin Red Line, that this happens, but I figured it was only little kids. I almost wept when I saw it. Now that I am looking, I see it more and more, and it gets me every time. I don’t know what to say. In addition, I see rough-looking teenage guys walking down the street with their arms around each other’s shoulders. I’ve always been a sucker for an elderly couple sitting in the park holding hands, but this confluence of intimacy and anti-western-phobia is simply lovely. For my friends back home, do not fear: I promise not to try and slip my fingers between yours when we walk to the coffeeshop. I promise to try.

For some reason, the time zone here runs in thirty-minute intervals. Thus, when it’s 3:00 PM here, it’s 4:30 AM EST. Even now, as I sit drinking water, one of you is waking, perturbed, stumbling across jeans and an ill-placed dresser trying to find the bathroom. The possibilities make me smile.

Another thing I’ve begun to notice more and more is the commonality of facial features. I have begun making a list of the times I have spotted Indian versions of my friends. Yesterday, I spotted the Indian Paul Savage (my roommate), and I almost walked up to him to ask where I could get a good vodka tonic.

Though he’s not my friend, I did spot the Indian Willie Nelson. His face was on a sticker on the back of an auto-rickshaw, apparently a local swami: Swami Nelson. I began singing tunes in my head like “To All the Gurus I’ve Loved Before,” “You Were Always Cutting In Line,” and “Chapatis on My Mind.”

To all of you, I miss you and am looking for you in India.

Love,
jeremy

:: 02.04.03, Bangalore ::

As I’ve noted before, I spend much of my reading and writing time sitting at a flimsy table at an outdoor café called Barista. The coffee is bad and the music is worse, but the location is just right. From my table, I’m able to keep an eye on my surroundings, especially the busy walkway and chaotic street in front of me. Barista is located on Mahatma Gandhi Road, the equivalent, in US terms, of Martin Luther King Road. Except, in comparing the two, you would be convinced that Gandhi were a pacifistic, affluent businessman and Martin Luther King were a violent mis-manager.

One of the reasons I write here is that its location affords me an opportunity to interact with both locals and tourists, the locals wanting a taste of Western culture and the tourists wanting a safe cup of coffee. A few days ago, I found myself at a table next to a middle-aged woman and a striking far-from-middle-aged woman. I tried to focus on my reading, but my eyes decided they needed a break every third line to make sure the younger woman was enjoying her coffee and conversation. After the seventeenth check-in, the younger woman checked in on me, and I knew that the gig was up. She stood from her table, approached me (eyes and nose dug-deep in my book now) (to call me a pervert, to ask me to kindly stop checking in on me, to offer me a tic-tac?), and said, “Here, when you’re finished reading that, you can read this,” and handed me a small pamphlet. I said, “Oh. Thank you,” as if her presence were a complete surprise, stashed the pamphlet away so as not to look too eager, and continued reading. A few minutes later, after a desperate round of speed-reading, I closed my book and looked at the pamphlet. I knew right away—the exaggerated font, the exclamation points, the apocalyptic figures—that I had been given an end-of-the-world-you-better-make-sure-you-can’t-find-the-number-666-on-your-body-anywhere gospel tract. It is cruel to use beauty such.

After thumbing through the pamphlet, instead of canceling all my credit cards, disavowing anything global and electronic, and repenting of my gross misunderstanding of the tribulation to come, I decided to go find a pub. If the world is going to end soon (and I can’t possibly meet this pamphlet’s requirements), I might as well knock one back, Ecclesiastes-style.

Do not hear what I’m not saying. Though I detest the majority of such pamphlets, I do not detest its givers; nor do I have the right to question their motivation. The problem is that most of this literature appeals to a person’s fears, rather than his longings. Biblically, there is a place for fear, but the burden of Scripture, and of Jesus’ work, appeals to the deep-seated hunger and thirst, the implanted longings that we share as creatures hungry for worship. To engage someone’s heart at this level is a serious thing, and people deserve more than grisly cartoon drawings and a pre-printed confession if we are to engage them respectfully and realistically.

Such an evangelistic method is, I imagine, a largely Western invention, and I am both ashamed and afraid for the Indian church if she thinks that’s what India needs. People have universal longings, but if we begin to engage people with pre-packaging rather than individual care and attention, we might as well abolish cultural differences and seek to establish The Church of Christ Robotic.

Enough preaching.

Later that night, I returned to Barista and took my usual seat. At the table next to me were two Westerners: Julian and Jeremy, Frenchmen, as I found out. We were having a lovely discussion on Indian culture, Western influence, and jazz fusion when someone said the dirty word: “war.” To my delight and surprise, we agreed largely on the situation, and we were enjoying our little coalition, when another Westerner overheard us on her way to a table and started spouting off, obviously in disagreement, and clearly in a foreig

Posted by ghetto monk at February 18, 2004 11:15 PM | TrackBack