Still thinking

OK...I've been home a week , and am very aware that more processing needs to happen fairly swiftly, before I lose touch completely with the India experience amid the Advent avalanche. At the moment, if I'm honest, its impact seems to be mostly that of a large road-block that's hindering me from re-engaging with the people I'm called to serve here and now in CK. I know that I've left part of my heart in a parish in Bangalore (CSI Zion Church, if you're interested) - but I simply mustn't allow this to impede my ministry here.
After all, that would be to negate the whole point of my visit.

Before I left, many people asked what I was going for,- and a similar question was put by the diocesan bishop of Karnataka Central when we arrived. "What is your agenda for the month?"
Our official brief was "to learn from the pastoral ministry of the CSI,- with the implicit hope that this would impact (positively) on the whole way we do ministry when we return home" but at the moment I'm finding the differences in context and delivery so huge that making sense of the lessons is almost beyond me.

It's not simply that the church in India is completely committed to vigourous social engagement, though it's very inspiring to see the many wonderful projects, schools, hospitals and rescue schemes that the diocese runs. (More of these later, I expect)
I both loved and hated the response of Nirmala Vasanthakumar, "Bishop Amma" (as the wives of CSI bishops are known) "If the church doesn't do these things, then the church is irrelevant" - because it's not easy to hear such a stark truth about oneself,- but I believe she's right.
Quite what I do with this reminder now I'm back in the affluence of CK is another matter. I'm haunted by the knowledge that, when we attended the launch of a new project for street children, I was thanked for our parish's contribution to the funding...and hadn't actually remembered we were supporting it, because the annual donation of £100 was so insignificant in our budget that the PCC simply wrote a cheque, with no need to fundraise, and thus without any sense of ownership or involvement at all. That didn't and still doesn't feel particularly admirable to me, so to be garlanded and celebrated for our generosity was distinctly uncomfortable.

But that's not the main difference between our churches.

It's nothing to do with the differences between a church that operates on the "gathered" model, and represents a minority faith, as opposed to the C of E, which continues to operate on the assumption that everyone living within the parish is our responsibility, if they've not explicitly opted to belong elsewhere.
Certainly, it was both helpful and challenging to realise that the majority of the people I met outside the Indian churches had less than no knowledge of or interest in Christianity...Now where have I heard that before?

Of course India is a famously spiritual place. One of my most significant meetings during the past month was with a dozen elderly ladies who had all converted from Hinduism, and clearly saw their faith in Christ as the logical conclusion of many years of devoted Hindu observance. They had all been "continually in the Temple" and this laid the foundation for what came next...which also makes sense in the current climate of spirituality shopping that we're assured is part of contemporary western culture. I wish there had been opportunity to talk directly with practising Hindus. As I visited Christian homes, the many holy pictures and statues displayed with pride had a distinctly similar aura to the Hindu shrines we passed on street corners, and sometimes in worship it felt as if at any minute something older than the Christian church might emerge from somewhere beneath the surface of the liturgy. This was specially true when the Tamil congregations used traditional lyric music alongside their hymns. Their singing communicated with parts of me that I didn't even know existed,- perhaps because I was totally ignorant of both the meaning of the words and the musical form. For whatever reason, being part of a congregation worshipping in this way was a hugely liberating experience.

I suspect, though, that I'm not explaining myself well at all, as I'm not in any way suggesting that Indian Christianity is only a veneer, but rather that I was made specially conscious of the common nature of the search for God, whatever its context.
Far from being superficial, the faith that I encountered was quite simply and non-negotiably real, the foundation of everything that happened, every day, from the death of a child to the purchase of a new car.
So, I guess the most overwhelming difference between the church here and there is that, quite simply, all the congregations I encountered in India obviously believe in God and expect prayer to change things.


To spend a couple of hours in worship on Sunday, and then another 45 minutes praying with all sorts of people, in all sorts of different situations (some of which I couldn't begin to understand, as my Tamil is conspicuous by its absence - but that mattered not a jot) was a completely new and wonderful experience for me. To have elderly ladies automatically dropping to their knees at my feet having asked me to pray was perhaps the most humbling thing that has ever happened to me.
To come home without knowing the "end" of so many stories is terribly painful.
I did say that I'd left part of myself behind.

Advent challenges

Yesterday's offering was no easier than its predecessor, so I'm wondering whether, as Wednesday is my day off, I can exempt myself from trying. You think not? Ah well.
Here it is, anyway, in case you're made of sterner stuff..

Reflection for the day
THOUGHT: “God does not love us because we are valuable: we are valuable
because God loves us.”
Fulton John Sheen 20th cent., RC archbishop in USA, prolific spiritual writer
ACTION: St Paul observes that we can “pierce ourselves with many griefs”.
Consider what harm you do to yourself: with what unnecessary
‘grief’ do you make yourself unhappy? Today, believe in your own
worth and decide that by Christmas you will give up that self-harm.
PRAYER: for the courage to love oneself so that love for neighbour becomes
more real.

Today I "simply" have to focus on humble and unobtrusive service to my neighbour...which is fine until I reflect that this almost certainly includes my family. Oh piglets. Whose idea was all this anyway??

They've done it again...

Since 2005 Gloucester diocese has offered resources for praying together during both Lent and Advent,- a daily pattern that includes elements of Common Worship Daily Prayer, but with additional material for reflection. At St M's we've found this really valuable, not least because the initial Lenten series provided the catalyst for several members of the congregation to join us in praying the Office throughout the year. I've always found the non Scriptural material thought- provoking, and this Advent there is also an action suggested. We're only on day 2, but I'm feeling thoroughly shaken up already, which I guess is rather the idea. So I don't suffer alone, here's today's. So much easier to type than to actually get on and do, but I'm working on it, I promise!

REFLECTION
“If you have a fearful thought, do not share it with someone who is weak; whisper it to your saddlebow and ride on singing.”
Alfred 9th cent., King of Wessex
ACTION: Discover what is your ‘saddlebow’: hold a Cross or your Bible, and whisper your fear to the Lord. ~ Do you fear a person or a situation? Write down the name of who or what disturbs you. Look steadily at that named fear and pray “Our Father . . .”, then ‘ride on, singing’.

A post just for Songbird...

who, thanks to the Atlantic Ocean, has managed to live a blameless life, free from any pernicious taint of Christingle!

I guess the main thing to know about said service is that it is staggeringly popular, attended by scores of people who wouldn't dream of setting foot in a church on other occasions. It combines children and sweets, carols and candlelight...is it any wonder that it packs them in the pews?
It's also a rather clever way of persuading people to support a worthy cause,- but I do have very mixed feelings about it, even when I'm not jetlagged before I start the proceedings. I'm fairly soggy at heart, but in all honesty Christingle does border on the unbearably sentimental. Only on a very a good day, can I feel OK about "Away in a manger" by candlelight. Christingle makes me want to imitate an Anglo Catholic priest (who is undoubtedly famous, which is probably why I can't even begin to recall his name)..and who used, iirc, to shock his congregation at Midnight Mass each year by removing the baby from the crib and placing a cross there instead, which is strange, because the circumstances of the children that Christingle sets out to support have far more in common with the suffering God than with chocolate-box commercialism.
So I'm probably being unreasonable...and most years, I devise Christingle services with good grace. This year's grimble factor is probably just part of the post India fall-out. Anyway, here is a Christingle in all its glory, plus the official info from the Children's Society US friends want to experiment, there's enough material there to keep you going for years!website.

Christingle services bring together family and friends of all ages. Held from Advent to Epiphany, this festive celebration communicates the Christian message in an inspiring way to adults and children alike. Its wide appeal makes it an ideal way to encourage newcomers to church and extend your congregation.

The Children's Society holds its special Christingle appeal each year to raise vital funds for the children facing life's harshest challenges. Children who may find themselves sleeping rough this winter; or fleeing conflict and war; caught in a cycle of crime; or marginalised due to a disability. The funds raised from Christingle help us to shine light into the darkness of their lives.

Christingle was established by the Moravian Church in 1747 as a symbol of Christ's light and love. The word itself means Christ light. The Children's Society introduced it to the Church of England in 1968 and it has since become a popular family and community event.

The Christingle itself is made up of a lighted candle (symbolising Jesus, the Light of the World), mounted on an orange (representing the world), and a red ribbon or tape around the middle of the orange (indicating the blood/ love of Christ). Four cocktail sticks bearing dried fruit or sweets are also stuck into the orange to signify the four seasons and the fruits of the earth.

So there you have it. If any U.S friends want to experiment, the Children's Society website surely has enough material to keep you going for years,- but I won't blame you if you decide to give it a miss!

Ummmm

Thanks for your responses to my JAFFA club dilemma...To my surprise (and pleasure) M's mum appeared to collect this afternoon, so I asked for a quick word and explained what I planned to do next week. Pleasure was, however, rapidly replaced by near panic, as the situation is
even more complicated than the school had suggested. There is indeed a strong Jewish connection but the mum describes herself as "Christian, but we don't do all the stuff that the church has added...like the festivals, because they are pagan anyway".
I asked where her boundaries lay in terms of acceptable teaching for her daughter, and we now have a coffee date lined up for Friday to explore more fully. All was entirely amicable, but I'm actually rather unnerved by the whole thing, and fearful that I'll say something crass and unhelpful or, in my anxiety to keep the channels open, bend over backwards so far that I end up gazing at the stars.
A few prayers for wisdom wouldn't go amiss, if anyone has time.

Am I being unreasonable?

I've been sharing the leadership of an after-school club at the local (non church) primary school off and on for a couple of years, taking it over more fully this year when a teacher retired , and relaunching it with a slightly snappier name chosen by the children to replace the original cringeworthy "Christian Club".
It is, I repeat, a voluntary after school club, with an expressly Christian agenda. For the record, the name the children chose was JAFFA kids (Jesus A Friend For All),- so it's hard to think we've been unduly sly or stealthy in our approach.
So what am I to make of a parent who has contacted the school to say that her daughter enjoys the club and is keen to continue attending, but as they are Jewish she does hope that I won't be focussing on Christmas in our activities as term draws to a close? Her child is a sweetheart and a real asset to the group, - but it does seem a complete nonsense for me to reorganise the programme and lose one of a limited number of opportunities to remind the children that Christmas is about more than just presents. Tomorrow, I'll try and do something about light and darkness that will be applicable to Hannukah as well, I hope (suggestions very welcome)...but for the final session of the term, I'm anxious to steer their thoughts to the baby in the manger . I hate to be awkward, but I am a Christian priest trying to help the children to celebrate a Christian festival. Surely that's not too much to ask?

I can see it will be an ongoing problem....There's lots I can do during "Ordinary Time" by way of exploring the stories of the Hebrew Scriptures, and some work on social justice issues would be great too, but what price Easter without the cross and the empty tomb? And why send your child to a Christian club if you don't wish her to hear any part of the Christian message? I'm very happy to have her there,- as I say, she's a sweetie. I'm just asking...

We interrupt this series...

of post-India reflections to report on the sheer madness of Advent Sunday at Charlton Kings.
I loved presiding at the 10.00 - can't think of a better way of reconnecting with the congregation here, and the Advent Carol service last night was blissful too...Standing in the darkened church listening to the Palestrina Matin Responsary produced the annual goose-pimples, and Wachet Auf made me believe that maybe, despite my most Scroogelike inclinations, Christmas might be worth looking forward to.
However, I discovered rather late in the day that in their eagerness to make me feel needed, my colleagues had left the Christingle service for me to sort as I saw fit. My confidence in this strange annual rite was not at its highest level, after I had tried to explain the concept to my Indian friends, in a conversation that reminded me mostly of the Bob Newhart sketch about Walter Raleigh and tobacco ("then you put it in your mouth and set fire to it???!") ...
"You take an orange and stick sweets in it..."
"You WHAT?!?!?!"
Somehow, the whole thing felt increasingly fatuous, before ever we got the stage of building a human Christingle (thanks, D) and (oh deary dear) singing "Shine Jesus, shine" but the crowds leaving the church at the end of the service seemed to have enjoyed themselves, and there were lots of comments today about the atmosphere and the "Ahhh" factor of small children by candlelight. I guess I'll just have to accept that I've left a part of myself back in Karnataka, and adjust to the novel feeling of half-wishing I was somewhere else even as I rejoice in being with my friends and family once more.

Meanwhile, if you are one of the three people who saw me this morning pushing a supermarket trolley (complete with wonky steering, of course) laden with Christingles through the streets of Charlton Kings en route to the playgroup and didn't fall about laughing, I'm deeply grateful.
The rest of you can form a committee to plan next year's service, OK?

"Girl Child Sunday"

was celebrated 2 weeks ago, when I was in Channapatna.
"Girl child"? What's with that? you may wonder...It certainly sounds strange to western ears, and the fact that there's a whole Sunday set aside by CSI to address the rights and needs of girls is a powerful reminder that India is a very different context from home. For all my delight in the Indian experience and my envious admiration of the beauty of my Indian sisters (why, oh why can't the west adopt fashions as universally flattering as the sari or salwar?) I wouldn't want to swap lives with them for all the tea in Darjeeling.

Girl Child Sunday is necessary because in India six years into the 21st century, the prevailing attitude to women remains firmly medieval. Women's work is the foundation of every Indian home, with mothers rising at dawn to draw water (even close to Bangalore, mains water is not only undrinkable but often non-existent for much of each day, so vessels must be filled to meet all domestic needs whenever the water actually does flow), then spending a good hour cooking the traditional Indian breakfast. (I've really struggled with the overwhelming hospitality that insists on three cooked meals a day, with numerous snacks in between - bizarrely, being thoroughly overfed so put me off food that I've actually managed to lose weight...not sure quite how it worked, but it's rather pleasing all the same).
From then on, for the Indian housewife, it's drudgery all the way. Housework (every home seems to need sweeping on a daily basis), more cooking, shopping for fresh food every day, more cooking...all to serve the men of the house, whether husbands, sons or fathers.
Domestic violence seems habitual in the poorer homes, with drunkenness compounding the problem,- it was commonplace to step round insensible shapes sprawled on the pavements,- and women have no escape from this, as to leave your husband is to cut yourself off from family and community, and ensure that you can no longer call anywhere home.
Only once her sons marry can a woman acquire a higher status for a time as a mother-in-law, making daughters-in-law miserable in their turn,- but with widowhood, high-caste women may find themselves non-persons again, traditionally condemned to shaven heads, white saris, sleeping on the floor and spending their time in prayer for their departed husbands, with no possibility of remarriage. In an interview a woman, widowed when she was still in her twenties lamented the outlawing of the custom of sati, for, she said " Swift oblivion has to be preferable to decades of living death" and sati matas are traditionally revered as akin to saints.

Even in westernised homes, where both partners work, the expectation is that the woman will undertake all domestic tasks on top of her career. I really struggled when clergy wives, coming in at 9.00 pm from a day's teaching and a long commute from the city immediately set to work serving the evening meal, waiting on husband, father and guests (including me). Nobody even suggested that a little help could be offered, and the culture of service seems completely non-negotiable. Repeatedly I was told "It's our privilege and pleasure to serve our menfolk"...and too bad if it isn't.

Against this background, it is maybe not surprising that female infanticide remains a problem. While in the past fathers might seek to evade the demands of providing a dowry by killing their new-born daughters, today it more like to be the mother who opts to abort a girl-child, not wanting to bring another woman into the world to suffer as she herself has suffered.
Modern medical techniques make this so easy that there is a real potential for gender imbalance in Indian society, such that the government has just launched a means-tested scheme to offer grants to girls on their eighteenth birthday.
But unless there is a radical change of attitude, it will never be easy for Indian women. Wherever we went, I was conscious of their labour, from our hostesses, eating in the kitchen long after the rest of us had relaxed at table, or the array of sweepers and labourers carting loads of bricks on their heads on the building sites of Bangalore.

I'm aware, too, that it is the women who are the strong core of the church. It is the women who gather regularly for midweek prayer, the women who hand on the faith to their children...but though women were ordained in C.S.I. for 10 years before the vote went through here in England, they remain largely submissive in ministry too, serving in difficult contexts with scant support. Even in my rather bemusing role as a "foreign dignitory" (yes, I really was announced as such on several occasions!), I too was largely ignored if the men in our party were present. This had its plus side, as I was less of a target for beggars and street vendors, who assumed that I had no voice in decision making,- though it could be maddening too.

I know that there is some interesting work emerging from feminist theologians, and a growing recognition that women may be entitled to an identity beyond that of wife and mother...but it seems to me that there are many many miles to travel before I could be persuaded to change places with my sisters...On Girl Child Sunday, I was privileged to baptise 3 children,2 boys and a girl.

As always, the rite was sheer joy, but more than ever I found myself wondering and worrying about what might lie ahead for Nikith, Pranesh and Nisha, in that society that is so unlike my own, and praying that each of them might come to realise their infinite value as children of God,- sons and daughter.

I hate jet lag!

Having spent most of yesterday light-headed from exhaustion, and talking gibberish to all who came my way, I fell asleep delightedly at around 9.00 pm...(which meant I wasted a whole evening of Hattie Gandhi's company, as she is on a flying visit home,- but I wouldn't have been much use to her even if I'd been awake).
So far, so good, but I have been wide awake now since 2.30 am and this is really not the best weekend in the year to be drooping again by mid afternoon. As well as the Eucharist, there's Christingle, Advent Carols, and alot of wonderful people to catch up with. Meanwhile, since I'm clearly not going to get any more sleep, I've added some pictures to earlier posts. I don't think I'm up to intelligent blogging yet, though.
Do more seasoned travellers among my readers have any helpful hints for dealing with this? Or do any local ones have a spare sleeping pill? This is just silly!

Just checking in...

We left Bangalore at 4.00 am local time, and I reached The Curate's House at 2.30 pm UK time (which is 5.5 hours behind Bangalore...) and last night I was too excited to sleep...so I'm not on particularly scintillating form now! However, I've tons and tons more to share about India, if anyone can bear to hear it. It was the most amazing experience,- a month is just enough to make me aware that I've barely scratched the surface of understanding India,- but I'm so glad to have had the chance to begin at least. Will start saving for my return trip as soon asap, and will blog more very soon.
Thanks for reading and commenting while I've been away. I've not even tried to keep up with all your blogs, but it's been good to have contact with the blogging community via your appearances here. More once I've slept and cleared my desk!

The Prince and the Pauper

Once upon a time in Mysore there lived a Maharajah. He was immensely
wealthy and lived in a magnificent palace, with golden domes, floors
of inlaid marble, doors of carved silver and wonderful glass ceilings
engraved with peacocks. Once a year he allowed his people to marvel at
his splendour when he emerged for a "Darshan" festival, riding the
royal elephant in a golden howdah encrusted with jewels.
When his people saw him, the climax of a procession of guards and
bearers, of local dignitories and minor royals on lesser elephants, -
when they saw him they knew that truly their Maharajah was one of the
gods.

Once upon a time in Mysore there lived a Maharajah. Though he ruled
over thousands who struggled from day to day in abject poverty, he
would sometimes steal out of the palace at nightfall, disguised as an
ordinary man, to check that all was well in his city. Or perhaps he
didn't, but since people believed that he did, the effect was just as
good.

Once upon a time in Mysore, there lived a Maharajah, and at his gate
there was a beggarman, scavenging with the packs of stray dogs for
scraps from the royal table.
Years passed, and a new country was born, a country so vast that the
state the Maharajah ruled was only a fraction of the whole. As the new
country came to birth, many old things passed away. Soon there was no
Maharajah to ride on an elephant and receive the homage of the crowds.
The people were ruled by men from far away, who seldom visited to see
that all was well with them.
The palace that had glittered with the light of a thousand lamps stood
empty and quiet.
But at the gate, sixty years on, the beggarman, or his son's son,
remains. His daily routine is constant no matter who governs, for this
is India and turn where you will, the poor are always with you,
scavenging with the dogs for scraps from the rich man's table.
I'm assured by my hosts that today nobody needs to beg. There is land
set aside for "beggar colonies", where the poorest of the poor can
grow the staples of life, and receive a government stipend if they are
unfit for work.
Beggars remain, say my friends, because "It's easy money..." and, I
would guess, because for generations their caste has existed without
any self respect, believing that they have no value, no dignity to
lose.

Mahrajahs may come and go, and so may British tourists, but until the
caste system is excised from the mind of India, there will always be
a beggarman at the gate.

What the Papers Say

What the Papers say
To read The Times of India as a western visitor is a bizarre
experience. To start with there is the prose style, a blend of the
formal with the slang of yesteryear, punctuated with as many
exclamation marks as a letter from a teenage girl at boarding school! Headteacher's wife in the soup!Really!!!
Then there are the stories themselves. The frothily domestic reports
of school sports days and exam success, or the comings and goings of
Bollywood starlets sit side by side with accounts of sleaze and
corruption worthy of the most infamous banana republic, of gangsters
running protection rackets and of criminals elected to political
office direct from their prison cells.
In fact, to read the Times of India is to step into a world whose
boundaries are those of the fiction shelves in an airport bookstall,-
Mills and Boon meets macho thriller.
Glitterati or gangsters, who knows who will have the upper hand,- for
India is surely like nowhere else on earth.

A Question of Priorities

Out of town for the past 10 days, hence blog silence - and I'm now
writing to you from the southernmost tip of India, Kanyakumari where
the 3 seas meet. I'm here with the clergy from 2 CSI dioceses for
their annual conference...staying in a newly built centre where
electricity and water are so newly connected that they are erratic
even by Indian standards. Bishops here are autocratic in the extreme,
so the whole thing feels rather like Dotheboys hall....specially as we
sit and long tables and sing grace! We travelled here by coach...a 20
hour journey from hell on roads that gave up periodically and
degenerated into potholed dirt tracks...with a horn-happy driver and
50 overexcited Indian male clergy singing, I suspect, their local
equivalent of rugby songs! And on Friday we get to do it all again in
reverse....However, to be here overlooking the Indian Ocean is pretty
wonderful really....so it's churlish to grumble.
Rather than trying feverishly to fill you in on all that has happened
since I last posted, I'll try and get down to the internet cafe to
post a series of reflections on some aspects of the continuing mad
extremes that are my experience of India.

After the agony of our visit to the AIDS project came play time, as we
visited the Bhannergatta nature reserve for close encounters with
bears and deer, lions and tigers, all in their natural habitat.
Best of all, we mingled freely with a family of elephants, scratching
behind their ears, feeding them hay and leaping out of the way just in
time when they offered us an unsolicited shower.
They were so delightful with their air of benevolent wisdom, it's quite
understandable that so many conservationists devote their careers to
them. Among them are the staff of A Rocha India,- a branch of the
international Christian Conservation group,- and they had much to tell
us of their struggles. In a country with such huge social problems, where tens of thousands lack the basic necessities of life, taking time and money to conserve wildlife might seem a reckless luxury. What's worse, in many cases humans and animals are in direct conflict...Villagers scratching a living on the fringes of India's great forests face ruin if a herd of elephants emerges to raid their crops...Recently a government compensation scheme has been introduced, but it covers only part of the damage...and the excellent laws in place to protect wildlife are almost impossible to enforce. According to a popular saying here "It's a long way to Delhi" and whatever the law may say on this, or any other topic, grassroots reality is very different.
Outraged villagers take matters into their own hands or try to make a few hundred rupees by poaching...after all, the international ban on ivory sales doesn't matter if you are already operating outside the law. As is the way of things, when prosecutions are brought, it's only the small fry that are caught...the fat cats remain safe, hundreds of miles away.
So, elephant numbers have declined despite their protected status, their habitat threatened by Bangalore's urban sprawl and by the quarrying work (illegal again) that carries on even in the heart of the national park. We travelled on metalled roads that you'll not find on any map, to settlements that don't officially exist, following the stream of trucks that flows each day from quarries to city.
All in all, an Indian conservationist's lot is not a happy one,- but
the world would be so much poorer if in a decade the wildlife we were
privileged to meet could only be found within the safe but artificial
confines of nature reserves. A Rocha is working with both villagers
and city dwellers to educate them in the essential balance and mutual
dependence of nature and humanity. Elephants are sacred to the Hindu
god Ganesh, while Buddhism teaches reverence for all life...so
ironically their task is hardest with the Christian community. Our
tendency to confuse stewardship with ownership, or, more laudably, a
concern that starving children should be fed before we turn to
endangered animals, can make our education a slow process.
But even amid the poverty of India, I cant help but remember that when
the 5000 were fed, there were baskets left over...enough to share with
birds and beasts as well.
And I did so love those elephants!

Good in Parts

Hatti Ghandi is not very inteligent.
Hatti Ghandi has been posting "mother is hell and wappy" posts to ordinary time.
Hatti Ghandi is half expecting to be lynched
But, she was well & happy earlier and sent her love a...very long time ago.
So sorry
xxxxx
C/HG/L

Thoughts on the British in india

You don't have to spend long here to be aware of the legacy of the Raj. It's there in the road names, "Hudson Circle", "Brigade Road", or the rather idiosyncratic signs
"Do not commit nuisance here" "Wanted, receptionist. Fresh or experienced."
It's there in the public school apsirations of the csi schools, with their culture of rousing school songs, "mens sana.." and all the trappings of a vanished Empire, tiffin and punkah wallahs.
Everywhere you go, there's no escape. For a socialist type like me, it's been deeply uncomfortable.
Worship last Sunday was a bizarre recreation of the church of my childhood. I presided at a Eucharist that was broadly series 2 (modified Book of Common Prayer, for non Anglicans!)....a robed choir sang Merbecke, and we processed in to "All things B & B". Only the packed church, with congregation spilling outside, the sea of colour when i looked down at the congregation, and the hands outstretched at the altar rail reminded me that i was in India.
Disturbingly, to be white still seems a passport to instant respect. A blessing from English hands is valued more than an Indian one, and to the young indian to be westernised to be to sophisticated and successful.
No matter that the IT industry which is making some in Bangalore rich is bringing huge social problems in its wake, as young people find themselves wealthy beyond their wildest dreams in a country where the cost of living is breathtakingly low.
Having brought a car, and thus contributed to the dual problems of congestion and pollution, drink and drugs are the only remaining ways to spend their easy wealth.
With both men and women employed (often doing antisocial hours to match the time zones of the countries they are calling) the traditional Indian extended family is breaking down creating new problems of geriatric and child care....But despite this, to be westernised is perceived as a Good Thing.
After a few days, i was ready to hang my head in shame and slink away...but then, in trust indian fashion, just as i was sure i knew something, a fresh circumstance challenged my views.
You see, I met Andrew, a Sunday school worker with CSI. Like 70% of indian Christians, Andrew's family is dalit...less than human, the lowest of the low...valued so much less than beasts that are revered as gods. But his grandfather converted to Christianity, following what amounted to a miracle...
He was employed by a British tea planter, a Christian who held daily prayers for his staff...but grandfather, a devout hindu, was not convinced. Then one day he had an accident, breaking his hip...hospital treatment was some days journey away, and by the time he arrived gangrene had set in and amputation seemed inevitable. Surgery was planned for the following day, and he lay in the ward, in great pain and utter desolation...He noticed a picture of Jesus, which he recognised from his employer's home...and in some desperation prayed "I am in too much pain. If you are indeed a god, act."
That night his pain did not keep him awake, and instead he slept deeply and dreamed vividly of two men in white who came to him and assured him that Jesus had indeed healed his leg.
In the morning, the gangrene had gone, the broken bone was whole and, not surprisingly, grandfather converted to Christianity on the spot, though facing huge opposition and persecution from his own community. Even now, when Andrew returns home to his village, he is out cast.
But, he says, it is worth it.
For Andrew, Christianity represents an open door, an escape route from the confines of the eternal cycle of karma in to freedom and dignity as a child of God.
Small wonder, then, that the Christian missionaries of yesteryear are treated like beloved relatives, spoken of as if they've only just left the room, remembered as people and not just in the names of hospitals, churches and schools that they founded to make a difference.
If everything is determined by karma there is no impetus for social change, no sense of mutual responsibility...but again and again we see the church acting, working with those who had believed themselves beneath notice, and doomed to eternal misery.
As i've said before, nothing is straightforward here!

Bitter reality

Yesterday I made a new friend...Her name is Anjali, and she's on the right in this picture. She is 24. She cooked my lunch, and placed a garland of jasmine round my neck, the heady fragrance almost drowing the stench of decaying rubbish. She is happy because she is part of a pilot project which offers her a change of career. She will learn to use an ancient treadle Singer sewing machine, to make industrial gloves. She will earn a living wage, but she won't do much living.
Her former job was as a "Commercial Sex Worker", for Anjali comes from a dalit family, and this was the only source of income available.
Now she is doubly untouchable, for my friend with the dancing eyes and the smile which communicates across any language barrier has AIDS.
And because she is the lowest of the low, in a developing country there will be no retroviral drugs, no hospice care.
Girls like Anjali die by the roadside, for dalit life is cheap.
But we held hands, admired each others children and laughed together as friends do.
Anjali is my friend, but in 5 years or so she will be dead.
Kyrie eleison.

And so the adventure continues

A disjointed catch-up blog..
Yesterday we visited two schools, side by side...again this bizarre juxtaposition of privilege and poverty...one was the sort of nice little girls school that I attended in St Leonards on Sea in the 1960s,with children in blue gingham and matching hair ribbons, the other run for slum children who get free meals from the church as they would otherwise be too hungry to learn.
Both wonderful...at the first, I was mobbed, literally, by hundreds of little girls demanding "Autograph, aunty"....could barely write, as books, pens, paper pressed up to my face! Digital photography is a great ice breaker...all children are so thrilled and excited to see themselves, and know their pictures will be coming home with me!
Today was the inauguration of the project for girls from the streets which we've been supporting as a diocese...delightful children,fanstastic staff and more or less non existent facilities....and these are the fortunate ones. Beside the CSI hospital (another place with few resources beyond loving care) there is the most appalling slum/shanty town, teeming with life and mess and misery...but it seems to be a fact of life accepted by all...and amid all the squalour is a mission school that has been there for 130 plus years. I'm being challenged in my attitudes to the impact of the British on India, which is far more positive than I had imagined...I'll write more about this when things are less frantic, but only have a few minutes of blogging time now.
Tomorrow we visit an AIDS project and on Friday some sort of ecology programme, which includes visiting a nature reserve. Cross your fingers that I get to see an elephant! It seems a teeny ambition in the face of everything else, but I would love to be able to tell the children at the Infants School about it!
And next week, all being well, I will leave the CSI Guest House to stay with a woman who has a parish in Channapatna, a rural area which is, I think, quite deprived...I feel I'm only scratching the surface, learning so much each day that I'll need months to process it. On Sunday the CSI Lectionary included that bit from Romans about the renewing of our minds...that is surely what is happening for me.
I wish I had longer to share thoughts and feelings, or better yet that some of you were here with me. I cant believe that this amazing experience is supposed to be "work"...but I would like everyone I know to be able to share it. Nothing will be the same again, I hope!

The rich man in his castle

Charity is part of life here. The the caste system has been outlawed, its legacy remains. Sweepers are shunned by the majority, as if they remained untouchable. Nobody seems perturbed at the bodies sprawled on benches or by the roadside, even in the heart of the city.

We spend a morning at a sports day for one of the elite senior schools where we are treated like royalty, led along a red carpet to a splendid pavilion, where we are showered with gifts and bouquets, and constantly plied with food and drink (this is a recurring feature of Indian hospitality....not the country for a crash diet!)
Our 'minder' for the morning is a senior teacher, and we are made very conscious of the strict hierarchy at work...at the bottom of the heap the maintenance staff in their uniform saris. They are, she assures us, fortunate to work here, where they are given a good uniform, including a sari for special occasions...and the same bonus as the teachers at Christmas...Then she betrays herself
'Truly, if you saw them going home in their saris you would think they were somebody. They dress too well."
Knowing who fits where in the system still matters....LCM's profession has caused huge confusion..is he a labourer? if so, how can he have married a pastor?? You can hear the incredulity in our hosts' voices....
There is, though, no embarassment, no discomfort at the disparity in facilities between children at the school and those at a hostel for the destitute in the same compound. The hostel Warden says
"The school provides shoes for every boy here. Are we not fortunate?"
There is not a trace of irony in his voice.
And everywhere we go there are the beggars. We have been told, firmly and repeatedly, not to give directly, no matter how desperate their plight appears.
So we avert our gaze and shake our heads. Sometimes a child runs beside me, liquid brown eyes beseeching me "Amma, amma..."
What will happen to him?
Only a handful are rescued. What if nobody responds, ever? No Welfare State to scoop him up and save him. He is no more than 6. Will he even reach double figures?
Oh to make a difference, but all I could do in a lifetime would change so very little, the tiniest drop in the vast ocean of human need.
Better after all to channel my help.
Already I've seen splendid projects, schemes that really can change lives.
But still, there are the beggars....

It's me! Kathryn!! In India!!!

I've been here 4 days and my senses are reeling. India seems to inspire huge generalisations and then immediately force me to revise them...It's a terrible place to be a child- those tiny boys at the street kids project had been sleeping rough at the station...its a wonderful place to be a child - they are welcomed and indulged everywhere they go. It's so modern...so ancient...
Basically, it defies description, except in terms of sensory overload. As I write, I can hear the frantic barking of a pack of stray dogs the putter of the ubiquitous scooters, the whistle of traffic police and motor horns, always motor horns. The only rule of the road seems to be Honk and Hope as traffic weaves in and out of impossibly tight spaces with no apparent system at work. Little yellow rickshaw trikes are everwhere crammed with a family of 4 here, a solitary veiled begum there. A bus queue across the road heaves and twitters like a flock of tropical birds which takes off when the bus arrives, to cram impossibly into the vehicle already filled to overflowing.
A couple speed past on a 2 wheeler he the epitome of western modernity talking on his mobile, or plugged into his ipod, she representing the past in the elegant jewel-bright beauty of her sari. They belong together, for it seems to me that India is one vast contradiction.
Repeatedly we're brought up against this. We visited a school for special needs children from the slums, and witnessed miracles wrought with almost no resources but love and patience...We left that building and walked a few yards across the compound of the same church to enter a school, the glossiest of glossy establishments whose marble hallways and state of the art facilities would not disgrace Eton! The children privileged to come here are on another planet from their neighbours across the compound. The Principle, urbane and charming in his beautiful boardroom suit, is frank about the issues facing his country.
"Yes education is compulsory for all,- but where are the schools?
Children work from an early age, specially in rural areas. The church does what it can but little can be achieved without bribery. So many people, so many languages...Who can manage India?"

from India via Cardiff

Good in Parts

comes the news - the mother has ARRIVED! Well, my mother at least (hello, Hatti Ghandi here, and yes I am wearing a hat. A wooly one. My heater refuses to work.) And, although she has not forgotten you, the internet seems to be being rather unoblidging when it comes to blogspot (shades of me in Thailand, for a small number of you)
But she is there and it is a blur of colurs and experiences and all kinds of wonders and she seems to be having, and to be about to have, an utterly fantastic time.
....actually, the computer issue may turn out a little complex, but we shall see.

Love to all from her, and to those I know from me
xxxx