Renegade Ants and a Lesson on Pride

I took a late shower in frigid water after a lazy day of resting and reading. I spent the previous night and two days at the home of Beena Miss, a teacher at the Lower Primary School where I teach twice a week. She lives in a rural area one hour from Mavelikara. She is considered a "backward caste" member, a phrase I've grown accustomed to hearing but I'm not immune to the shock of the words.

I had put off showering earlier in the day when the sun warms the water pipes, so I drew in my breath and jumped under the stream of water. After 24 hours with Beena Miss, I returned with 11 bug bites on my right calf alone, a forehead dotted with defiant zits and a tummy growling as it digested the, at least, 12 meals I had eaten in the last 24 hours. Rural home and "backward caste" though she is, I ate like a princess and even watched a few minutes of Takeshi's Castle on cable. Her mother-in-law and I snorted in laughter together at the show which pits 142 competitors against ridiculously hilarious obstacles as they try to "take over" Takeshi's Castle. Though there is no castle in the distance, and India's relatively recent independance from Britain makes me feel very conscious of what my presence means here, I can relate, in a way, to those competitors. They jump onto a rolling log and falter, the crowd laughs or cheers or cringes as they watch. I feel like a competitor trying to maintain my balance on a swiftly turning log, and attempting to smile as the crowd watches.

Sometimes things happen too fast, many times things seem to go too slowly (all except for the buses). I usually misunderstand conversations and my jokes don't translate. I shower in cold water and the water I drink is boiling hot. I eat with my hands and take my shoes off at every storefront. The Indian sun pelts my skin, but I have never felt the glow of my white skin so pervasively. I'm a "missionary" who understands hardly a word spoken in church. In the U.S., my nose piercing might be considered rebellious, here the stud is much too small and not gold, what a waste! I teach English to kids whose native tongue I hardly speak. I am a female learning to play a traditionally male instrument, tabla. The stuffed animal I sleep with is a snowman, complete with a wooly scarf and hat (sent by my Mom for Christmas!). I am an anomoly on all counts.

I am finished rinsing, the hard part is over and I can peacefully powder myself. I think about pride, something that has left me too often erroneously defensive. That plus my stubborness make a pretty find pair. Add my occasional bouts of anger over issues I cannot change and I am like a bomb ready to explode. Batman tackles me with his handy Hot-Heated Repellant and I fizzle with a smoking "Kaboom!"

Today Kochamma, the head warden of the hostel, pulled me into her office before dinner, "I must tell you..." she said. She tugged my hand and sat me down. "You must be careful about food," she warned in a seriously concerned manner, "It may be too spicy for you." My first reaction was to vehemently assure her, "I love the food! It's not too spicy!" but I held back. No need to defend my adaptable, though very much American, stomach. Kochamma knew I felt a little quesy after my night with Beena Miss. She told me I need to rest. Kochamma has spent two years in the U.S. and perceptively asked a few questions including, "Do you want juice? Americans are always carrying a water or juice." She finished her food prep talk by telling me I could use the stove to make food and reminding me that too much spice is bad for my stomach. I realized, though I truly was not having much trouble with the food lately (Really I swear! No, I mean it!), her advice was thoughtful and wise and the perk of a stove at my disposal is a gift.

I pulled on my "Pennsylvania Authentic" t-shirt that sat waiting for me on the windowsill outside my bathroom on top of a mountaineous pile of newspapers. As I pulled it just over my head I looked at the pants waiting to be put on next and saw moving lines of reddish brown covering them. I looked more closely, shirt now in limbo on my shoulders, and saw the ants. A kingdom of diligent workers crawling over and through the folds of my pants, between the newspapers and out my window. Then I felt them; little marching feet all over my shoulders and my arms. I tore off my shirt and danced desperately shaking off the ants. I filled a bucket with water and soap and dropped my clothes and a colony of distressed ants into the suds. I passed my mirror as I went to get a different pair of pants and laughed at what I saw; pimply face, glaringly white skin, a belly full of rice and a few renegade ants commited to my shoulder. Pride really has no place in my life here. I'm thankful for this lesson.