Halfway

February marks the halfway point of my year in India and I have mixed feelings. I am excited to return to the U.S. to live, for the first time in three years (having spent the last two years carbing up in Italy). I’m excited to celebrate holidays in the U.S. and I might bake myself a pecan pie everyday for the rest of my life to make up for lost time. I miss my family. I’m excited to be in the U.S. for the upcoming Presidential election. I’m excited for fall colors and winter snow. I miss my bed and my music, red wine and pasta, libraries and blue jeans. But I know when I return, I will miss so much about India. It is the people who have made this experience truly profound. Here are a few tid bits about my most trusted friends and mentors.

-Anne Miss, an English professor at Bishop Moore College, invited me to her home for an early Christmas celebration, the day after which we spent five hours in the grips of Jane Austen (or was it Colin Firth?) watching Pride & Prejudice. I finished a can of Indian-brand peanut butter by the spoonful as we watched. It was a special treat for both of us!

-Beena Miss and Salama Miss, sisters and teachers at the Lower Primary school who are very open with me. Yesterday we talked for over an hour about Indian methods of child delivery, sexual harassment and sex education. We laugh together and make fun of ourselves and each other. “When you marry, bring your husband here and I’ll cook Kerala food for him,” said Salama Miss, a jab at my vehement “waiting for marriage” mantra. “Then he’ll leave me and stay with you,” I retorted, to which her head flopped back with laughter and she slapped the table with glee. “Yes!” she cried and repeated what I said to Lillyammamma, who cooks Kanyee and peas for the 110 children. Lillyammamma laughed, she wants me to marry so much it makes me uncomfortable. “I will go with you and your husband to cook for you,” she suggested with frightening sincerity. “But who will stay with my husband?” she naughtily asks. “Lillyammamma!” she cries and looks to Lillyammamma, a new grandmother, who laughs and nods.

-Prabhaa Miss, the head of the English department at the college and my on-site supervisor. She and I discuss literature and feminism, cultural norms and music, Mavelikara gossip and human rights issues. It’s a gift to watch her as a professor, woman, wife, mother and community leader.

-Binu Chetan, the son of my country supervisor, who is a Ph.D. candidate in New Delhi. Binu Chetan listens as well as his mother, challenges society as well as his father and plays to Bob Marley on his guitar as he sings under the Che Guevara poster in his room.

-Ashwati, the tiny 4th grader who has stolen my heart. The daughter of a single mother and one of the poorest families in Mavelikara. She calls me Cate Chechee (older sister), she loves her cow, she loves to dance and she hates peas. Her mother serves me tea when I visit and I worry that it’s a burden, but rules of hospitality pressure me to accept. I brought a cake for Christmas, take family photos and listen to her talk about her life. She was diagnosed with congestive heart failure, soon after which her husband left her for another woman, offering no child support for their three children.

These folks are my Indian family. They are my teachers and my friends. They are making India an experience for me much deeper than cinnamon skies and backwaters boat rides. My Jesuit education challenged me to “Set the World on Fire,” but it is these people who are sparking the flame.