| Sunny Side Up March 24, 2004 �2004, Kathleen Gibson A wee glimpse of India The chickadees roused me this morning. An unfamiliar wake-up call after my more exotic ones over the last month: the laughing call of cuckoos, jingles of arm bangles and foot bracelets. Muslim prayer calls, dynamite booms echoing from the nearby rock foundry. Vehicle horn symphonies. I've been roaming the state of Andhra Pradesh, India for the last month or so, checking out small villages and large cities. Talking to people about Jesus, visiting the orphanage and women's work of my friend Esther, surviving Indian roads, and making new friends. I'm back in Canada now, and rather bemused by an enormous collection of unfamiliar thoughts roaming back of my synapses. Most are undefined, searching for appropriate words in which to present themselves, similar to my search for the right outfit to wear on the flight home. Something Indian, I decided finally. A Punjabi outfit I'd purchased at the Charminar cloth market in Hyderabad. A beggar stood at the shop entry that day and blew ashes and incense at me, right in my face. "Stop!" I pleaded, choking. But the shopkeeper smiled, tossed rupees in his plate. Told me this was a very good sign. Anyway, I put that outfit in my hand baggage. I'd don it, I thought, for only the last leg of the twenty-three hour flight home. The attendant at the counter thought differently. "Your bag weighs seventeen and a half kilos," she said, deadpan. "You'll have to check it." I watched the bag - tagless - sliding down the conveyer belt. Sighed and waved. Eldonna, my cousin and travel partner, giggled. Clearly, she didn't understand. I'd put important stuff in that bag. Beside the Punjabi outfit and reading material for the journey, I'd tucked a set of stainless steel dishes, to forever remind me of Indian hospitality. Of fragrant curry, buffalo milk curd, roti, and mutton byriani. Mostly, of the sacrifices our hosts made to provide us with such richness. Dozens of stainless steel serving spoons for giving to friends were in that bag too. I'd chosen them to convey the greatest lesson India taught me - that serving others brings incomparable joy. Now you know why I worried about that bag all the way to Canada, while my blue twelve-dollar pant outfit from the Sears Discount Center in Regina withered and stuck to my back. But like me, the bag debarked safely. I let out a whoop of joy when it rounded the bend in the luggage belt. Nothing-not books, pictures, video, or others' firsthand experiences-can prepare one for India, especially its rural areas. India must be seen and touched. Tasted, heard, and smelled. Nevertheless, I am a woman of faith and a woman of words. I've asked God for just the right ones to give my readers a glimpse through a crack in the door marked India. An unusual door it is, bearing two signs: Heaven and Hell. I saw both. I'll tell you about it, eventually. You can respond to this column at [email protected] |
 |