"But as for me, I will watch expectantly for the LORD;
I will wait for the God of my salvation.
My God will hear me.
Do not rejoice over me, O my enemy.
Though I fall I will rise;
Though I dwell in darkness, the LORD is a light for me." - Micah 7:7-8
I read through Micah at dinner tonight and was really hit by how clear God is about how He will guide us. It's especially relevant to me now as I walk the streets of a place I've previously called home, trying to discern whether I should return here again, and if so, what my role here should be. As tempting as it is to try to think through it all by myself - when I will return, in what capacity, how I should shape my life to prepare for returning - figuring this out is not something I need to work to do. Rather, I need to wait and pray. Though I know God has a plan for my life and that He'll guide me to where He wants me to be, I often forget that it's okay to not know RIGHT NOW where the path I'm on is headed. But, I trust that at just the right time God will show me what to do.
Give us this day our daily bread.
I think that knowledge of the trajectories of our own lives is also dosed out in daily portions. And those limitations necessitate an increase in faith...how smart, God.
"But as for me, I will watch expectantly."
I will know at just the right time.
Anyway, today. Today was busybusybusy. Woke up in an attempt to get to Mother's House at 7:30 to register for Kalighat. Thought I was leaving Paragon at 7:10. Walked out at 7:40. What? Turns out when I set my clock back an hour yesterday, I had forgotten that India is a half hour off from the rest of the world. So I was running a half hour late. Weeeeeeeee! Hopped an auto, ran into Mother's House. Registered. Grabbed a bus, with a little help from a guy I recognized from Sudder Street two years ago. He used to work at Tirupati, a roadside restaurant near Paragon, and pretend to be a Buddhist monk. Odd to see him so out of context.
Off the bus at the Kali Temple stop. Road to road to sidestreet to road, and then the familiar shops before Kali Temple, selling incense, flowers, beads, little statues. Lots of yellow, orange, deep red. Past the security guards who never check me unless I make eye contact and to Kalighat. Walking in there felt like any other day there...not like it had been a year and a half since the day they sang me the goodbye song. After getting my pass checked, donning a pink apron and dropping my purse in the volunteers' locker, I walked straight into the womens' ward. There were at least ten women still there who had been there a year and a half ago. I plopped down next to one and said, "Shanti! Eta khub bhalo apnake dekte pari." Shanti! It is very good to see you. We had a conversation about how she was feeling, lunch for the day, her family, how I learned Bangla. I repeat: we had a conversation. Like, I'm a person. She's a person. And we spoke and understood each other. AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH.
Repeat with about six different women, two of whom I didn't know from two years ago. Real conversations with words. It was crazy. I spent three months with these women, and could never understand the words they were saying to me, nor could I communicate what I wanted to say to them. Now I can. And I did. I told them I was so happy to have returned, commiserated with them about their pain, compared our families. All in Bangla.
But here's the thing: I think I was able to serve much more effectively when I didn't know Bangla. Before I knew Bangla, I had no chance of literally understanding what the women were saying, and I didn't even attempt to communicate anything with words myself. As a result, I was completely focused outside of myself, devoting all of my attention to the women - their body movements, intonation, facial expression - all in an attempt to gain some sort of understanding in order to serve them better. Because of this focus, I was able to really connect with the women beyond words, returning day after day to give foot massages and share songs. This time was different. Speaking and understanding a language you only know only a little of takes a whole lot of concentration. I found myself much more focused inside of my head than I was last time, because I was both working to understand the words I heard and produce my own correct sentences. Rather than just trying to serve, I was also trying to communicate. And while I think communication is very important, maybe the communication the women and I had before I knew Bangla was deeper, more effective, and more loving.
The place my Bangla did help A TON was with the mashis - the Indian women who work in Kalighat - and with one very young woman who seemed healthy, minus a healing head wound. When they found out I knew some Bangla, they were really excited. We talked for a long time, the five of us, in only Bangla. They told me I should have a Bangla notebook, so I went to the locker and grabbed my Bangla notebooks to show them. We read through a bit of my translated version of Psalm 121, sang the song I wrote last week, and practiced reading and spelling. The women - both the mashis and the younger residents - and I had so much fun! It's really wonderful to know enough Bangla to be functional, but not enough to actually be good. It means I'm forced to be constantly corrected and constantly learning. Hooray!
Okay! Time to leave the internet cafe. I need to go to bed to prepare for my CLS Kolkata visit tomorrow! Woohoo!!!!!
Love and Bangla,
Stephanie
Showing posts with label i love india. Show all posts
Showing posts with label i love india. Show all posts
Sunday, August 8, 2010
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Slumdog Millionaire
Last night, my friend Jeff and I went to see Slumdog Millionaire at the local theatre.
Before I discuss the film, I think it's important to describe the context in which I watched it.
Jeff and I walked from the Metro to the theatre, around 8:30 at night. Past the vendors lining the streets, the men muttering "looks nice" and "hello" in my general direction, around the garbage and human waste cluttering the gutters, past the barter-at-will market that inevitably swallows me up and tosses me into some sort of directionless, infinite sensory overload every time I enter, and into the strangely air-conditioned building that houses a Domino's, KFC, Barista, and movie theatre. The seats are assigned, like an actual theatre, and there are four prices - 40, 60, 80, and 120 rupees, based on balcony location (there are two levels and the floor) and proximity to the screen. You can openly bring food into the theatre, rather than smuggle it under your coat like my mom taught me. You can talk throughout the movie. It's normal to clap and yell things at the screen. There's a seemingly randomly-placed intermission, during which men walk through the aisles, over feet and knees, selling plastic-packaged popcorn and styrofoam-cupped coffee. And, just like everywhere else in Kolkata, the women are mostly wearing sarees. Which, in juxtaposition with the Western-influenced movie theatre and GIANT screen, causes the idea that we're really just a bunch of Indians in America to somehow creep into my mind. We brought vegetable rolls (not like spring rolls - like the Indian version of a burrito) and garlic bread from Domino's (a splurge) into the movie. We got there two minutes late (...still early for me...), but still in time for the previews, which were for Western movies that are long gone to DVD in the States.
...and then Slumdog Millionaire began.
OH. MY. GOSH.
First of all, if you haven't seen this movie, go see it. Now. Ignore your schedule and take a trip to Blockbuster. Also, don't finish reading this post until you see the movie. Sorry. It's necessary.
If you have seen it, and have had any questions about what living in Kolkata looks like - it looks like that. Just like that. No changes. None. Yes, Kolkata is a different city than Mumbai, but seriously, this movie, especially the first scene, looked just as if I stepped out of Apne Aap or Kalighat or, uh, the back of my hostel. And what really blew my mind within the first ten minutes is this: two months ago, the setting of this movie would have looked like...a movie. I would have admired the cinematography and said "oooooh that looks fun." Probably would have laughed at the dogs, and seen the movie as a nicely-imagined not-reality. And now...it's just plain accurate. Interesting, but in a "oh hey, I live there" way. Not in a "wow, what's that?" way.
I'm living in a place that I would have seen as fictional two months ago.
But there really is that much garbage. There really are dogs everywhere. There really are adorable, dirty kids holding screaming babies who appear out of nowhere at your car windows and ask for money whenever traffic stops. Remember the scenes with the overhead shots of the traffic? With the funny little golf-cart looking things? Those are auto-rickshaws. And that's exactly what the traffic looks like. Always. And that little head-tilt that Jamal did throughout the movie, to mean yes and no and maybe? HEAD WOBBLE. And remember the garlands of yellow flowers on the photos in the police station? Those garlands hang on photos everywhere here. Same with the random slabs of meat hanging in shops. There's a street on the way to the Motherhouse that has approximately twenty butcher shops, all containing numerous huge slabs of dead animal hanging in the open, and occasionally a full skinned pig.
The only components that are inaccurate are the women's clothing (there is not even close to that much Western influence in Kolkata - but I haven't been to Mumbai), the accents (not prominent enough, but I'm sure that was a Western-film choice), the copious amounts of spoken English (most of the movie should have been in Hindi), the PDA (kissing at a train station = not okay) and the depiction of the kid as the god Rama, who was definitely dressed as Shiva. That was weird.
So...there's one part of the movie that...hm. Kept me awake all night. There's this one flashback where this guy swipes a bunch of kids and teaches them how to sing. At this point, I looked at Jeff wide-eyed and mouthed "no. no. no. no. no." There's an old, blind man who lives and begs on Sudder street. He has the most beautiful voice I've heard in a long time. He walks around with a younger man who guides him, and all the blind man does is walk and sing. And that's how he begs. And he's one of the only beggars to whom I'll give money, because he sings, rather than just asking for money and holding a crying baby. And honestly, every time I see him I realize that there are some beggars here who actually aren't lying, and somehow, in some strange way, that makes me feel awkwardly hopeful. But Jeff noticed a few weeks ago that he cries when he sings. He's not the only crying, blind, singing beggar. They're all over Kolkata. And it's odd, as Jeff recently noted, that there are so many blind people in Kolkata who are so good at singing. ...then we saw Slumdog Millionaire.
And now I can't help but picture all of these old, singing, blind men as kids, getting their eyes burned out with acid and being sent into the streets to beg for money.
I've tried to find out whether that really is exactly how these men all became blind and learned to sing, but Google searching has proven inconclusive. As awful as it is...the rest of the movie was so accurate, that I find it difficult to believe this part was manufactured. Especially when it's such a probable explanation for an over-abundance of blind, singing men.
And then...I wonder about the blind orphans at Daya Dan, and my stomach turns.
...
Okay, that's all.
Except...the random dancing and singing at the end of the movie? Pure Bollywood. Hooray!
Love,
Stephanie
P.S. I'm hennaed. I'll post pictures when I can.
P.P.S. I adore Apne Aap. Teaching is difficult, but coming up with creative ways to get my girls to learn is a lot of fun. My translators have been gone for about two weeks. I'm on my own, teaching for two and a half hours Monday through Friday. Prayer would be very much appreciated. Also, I still haven't figured out whether my gorgeous, 17-to-22-year-old friends/students are prostitutes. I might ask one of the directors soon.
P.P.P.S. There are five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten-year-old kids at Apne Aap who ask me for paper and pens the exact same way kids on the street ask for money - with a head wobble and a smile and an "Auntie, please, Auntie, please." I worry about what they do after school.
P.P.P.P.S. Despite the sadness in this place, I'm completely in love with India.
Before I discuss the film, I think it's important to describe the context in which I watched it.
Jeff and I walked from the Metro to the theatre, around 8:30 at night. Past the vendors lining the streets, the men muttering "looks nice" and "hello" in my general direction, around the garbage and human waste cluttering the gutters, past the barter-at-will market that inevitably swallows me up and tosses me into some sort of directionless, infinite sensory overload every time I enter, and into the strangely air-conditioned building that houses a Domino's, KFC, Barista, and movie theatre. The seats are assigned, like an actual theatre, and there are four prices - 40, 60, 80, and 120 rupees, based on balcony location (there are two levels and the floor) and proximity to the screen. You can openly bring food into the theatre, rather than smuggle it under your coat like my mom taught me. You can talk throughout the movie. It's normal to clap and yell things at the screen. There's a seemingly randomly-placed intermission, during which men walk through the aisles, over feet and knees, selling plastic-packaged popcorn and styrofoam-cupped coffee. And, just like everywhere else in Kolkata, the women are mostly wearing sarees. Which, in juxtaposition with the Western-influenced movie theatre and GIANT screen, causes the idea that we're really just a bunch of Indians in America to somehow creep into my mind. We brought vegetable rolls (not like spring rolls - like the Indian version of a burrito) and garlic bread from Domino's (a splurge) into the movie. We got there two minutes late (...still early for me...), but still in time for the previews, which were for Western movies that are long gone to DVD in the States.
...and then Slumdog Millionaire began.
OH. MY. GOSH.
First of all, if you haven't seen this movie, go see it. Now. Ignore your schedule and take a trip to Blockbuster. Also, don't finish reading this post until you see the movie. Sorry. It's necessary.
If you have seen it, and have had any questions about what living in Kolkata looks like - it looks like that. Just like that. No changes. None. Yes, Kolkata is a different city than Mumbai, but seriously, this movie, especially the first scene, looked just as if I stepped out of Apne Aap or Kalighat or, uh, the back of my hostel. And what really blew my mind within the first ten minutes is this: two months ago, the setting of this movie would have looked like...a movie. I would have admired the cinematography and said "oooooh that looks fun." Probably would have laughed at the dogs, and seen the movie as a nicely-imagined not-reality. And now...it's just plain accurate. Interesting, but in a "oh hey, I live there" way. Not in a "wow, what's that?" way.
I'm living in a place that I would have seen as fictional two months ago.
But there really is that much garbage. There really are dogs everywhere. There really are adorable, dirty kids holding screaming babies who appear out of nowhere at your car windows and ask for money whenever traffic stops. Remember the scenes with the overhead shots of the traffic? With the funny little golf-cart looking things? Those are auto-rickshaws. And that's exactly what the traffic looks like. Always. And that little head-tilt that Jamal did throughout the movie, to mean yes and no and maybe? HEAD WOBBLE. And remember the garlands of yellow flowers on the photos in the police station? Those garlands hang on photos everywhere here. Same with the random slabs of meat hanging in shops. There's a street on the way to the Motherhouse that has approximately twenty butcher shops, all containing numerous huge slabs of dead animal hanging in the open, and occasionally a full skinned pig.
The only components that are inaccurate are the women's clothing (there is not even close to that much Western influence in Kolkata - but I haven't been to Mumbai), the accents (not prominent enough, but I'm sure that was a Western-film choice), the copious amounts of spoken English (most of the movie should have been in Hindi), the PDA (kissing at a train station = not okay) and the depiction of the kid as the god Rama, who was definitely dressed as Shiva. That was weird.
So...there's one part of the movie that...hm. Kept me awake all night. There's this one flashback where this guy swipes a bunch of kids and teaches them how to sing. At this point, I looked at Jeff wide-eyed and mouthed "no. no. no. no. no." There's an old, blind man who lives and begs on Sudder street. He has the most beautiful voice I've heard in a long time. He walks around with a younger man who guides him, and all the blind man does is walk and sing. And that's how he begs. And he's one of the only beggars to whom I'll give money, because he sings, rather than just asking for money and holding a crying baby. And honestly, every time I see him I realize that there are some beggars here who actually aren't lying, and somehow, in some strange way, that makes me feel awkwardly hopeful. But Jeff noticed a few weeks ago that he cries when he sings. He's not the only crying, blind, singing beggar. They're all over Kolkata. And it's odd, as Jeff recently noted, that there are so many blind people in Kolkata who are so good at singing. ...then we saw Slumdog Millionaire.
And now I can't help but picture all of these old, singing, blind men as kids, getting their eyes burned out with acid and being sent into the streets to beg for money.
I've tried to find out whether that really is exactly how these men all became blind and learned to sing, but Google searching has proven inconclusive. As awful as it is...the rest of the movie was so accurate, that I find it difficult to believe this part was manufactured. Especially when it's such a probable explanation for an over-abundance of blind, singing men.
And then...I wonder about the blind orphans at Daya Dan, and my stomach turns.
...
Okay, that's all.
Except...the random dancing and singing at the end of the movie? Pure Bollywood. Hooray!
Love,
Stephanie
P.S. I'm hennaed. I'll post pictures when I can.
P.P.S. I adore Apne Aap. Teaching is difficult, but coming up with creative ways to get my girls to learn is a lot of fun. My translators have been gone for about two weeks. I'm on my own, teaching for two and a half hours Monday through Friday. Prayer would be very much appreciated. Also, I still haven't figured out whether my gorgeous, 17-to-22-year-old friends/students are prostitutes. I might ask one of the directors soon.
P.P.P.S. There are five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten-year-old kids at Apne Aap who ask me for paper and pens the exact same way kids on the street ask for money - with a head wobble and a smile and an "Auntie, please, Auntie, please." I worry about what they do after school.
P.P.P.P.S. Despite the sadness in this place, I'm completely in love with India.
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