Simmering

I don’t know what to write, or how to express what March feels like in an Indian village. Maybe it’s the books I’ve been reading, maybe it’s a growing desire for some cheese and apples, or maybe it’s just March. My feelings could probably fit into the “culture shock” chart given to us at orientation. I remember looking at that chart during orientation week and wondering: two years in Italy, now three weeks in the U.S. and I leave for India in four days, where do I fit?

Mounting frustrations over the question “What am I doing here?” brought me to the conclusion, “Simply sitting and breathing,” which happens to be the punch line of The Worst Joke in Kerala (Q: What are you doing? A: Simply sitting and breathing. That was the joke). If I were, say, working here instead of volunteering, I could haughtily respond to the question, “What are you doing here?” with a top-notch, important sounding answer. The answer would give my presence significance. A reason for being. People might be impressed. My CV would be flush. Instead, (from this day forward) I say “Simply sitting and breathing.” I am no one of significance in Mavelikara. I’m not organizing, coordinating, or even assisting. My presence is my reason. I’m not important and that is significant. Because of me not being important, I can simmer on what is:

-Diane, a student earning her Master’s in English, told me last night about a friend of hers who asked her to call him “urgently.” Diane tried to contact him from a pay phone during the day to no avail. She told me that she cannot call from the hostel because Ammamma (the warden) would ask questions. “Who are you calling?” “What is your relationship to him?” Diane said Ammamma would assume that they are “in love and going to run away together.” This is an example of the type of assumptions made by adults regarding inter-gender friendships among young people in Mavelikara. Simmering.

- Mary, a freshman studying science, and I had a long conversation about menstruation. This was not “girl talk”, this was much more. She told me about her first period. She is Hindu and, she said, unlike Christians who are embarrassed by the onset of menstruation, Hindus celebrate it as a right of passage worthy of candies and cakes. She went on to talk about everyday life in her home while she’s menstruating, an unusual topic, but I soon understood why it was relevant. She cannot enter certain rooms in her house (the kitchen, the pooja room or prayer room). She sleeps in a different bed. No one can touch her. No one can touch her. No one can touch her. No. One. Can. Touch. Her. Simmering.

-Bishop Moore College (BMC) is a co-ed Christian college. The hostel where I live is for ladies only and is run by BMC. There are a significant number of Hindus living in the hostel (maybe more than there are Christians, a close tie if not) and I recently learned that these students are forbidden from going to temples while they live in the hostel. They are required to go to a Christian prayer service every morning and every evening. It explains why, many weeks ago, I walked out of my room at midnight to see hundreds of little candles lit and twinkling under the dark sky. It was a Hindu holiday that the students had to celebrate in secret at night because they were forbidden from doing so otherwise. Simmering.

-There is a student in second grade named Ryan who is mentally handicapped. The other day he tore his notebook and threw it in the trash. Or it could have been a classmate’s notebook, the language barrier confused things. I watched as the teachers yelled at Ryan and then hit him multiple times on the legs with a bamboo stick as punishment. He didn’t cry. He itched his legs where they stung and moved back towards the wall. Soon a few other boys were questioned and punished in kind. I didn’t know what to do. I tried to muffle my cry of frustration when they began to hit Ryan and the teachers reacted by showing me the trash can filled with discarded notebook and saying “Look! Look!” Simmering.

-The other day I noticed that Ashley has a lisp. What do you do when a kid has a lisp? I don’t know. Will she always have a lisp? Why is speech pathologist so hard to say? Simmering.

Without my room in the “ladies hostel,” my daily routine with the villagers, and my “Simply sitting and breathing,” I wouldn’t have so much on which to simmer. Imagine a pot of water bubbling consistently, not close to boiling over but no where near still. The sound is relaxing and the heated water could cook any fusili to al dente perfection. This is my new metaphor for March. And for my feelings of “anger” (I’m reclaiming the word) and frustration.