Punarjiivan

Once you caused my gut to clench,
You wrenched
Tears from empty sockets
Where they'd been pooling like a blood clot.

We struggled, you and I,
Until the tears ran dry,
And then
You brought a smile to my face --
When I put you in your place.

Fall is gone, and winter too,
Buds and saplings, pushing through, are
Pushing you away, fallen leaf and blossom;

Do not try to stay displayed --
You will only die that way.
So I will not defile you,
I shall press and file you.

Begrudge me not the present hour,
But watch and bless me from afar.
Au revoir, mon memoire.

Friday afternoon, squeezing fun out of the last half hour of freedom. I could spend it outside in the fresh, crisp air, but my thoughts are seeds, popcorn seeds, sitting in a layer of hot oil; if I don't attend to them, they'll pop and burn. I'd rather pop them here; you can add the salt and butter in the comments section.

I've been writing lately, a couple of ways.

Uncensored torrents, gushing from my pen across the blank, barren paper.

Then my pen becomes a chisel, carefully extricating each piece of excess stone, revealing form in striking clarity.

Here are samples. You can judge. Torrent (a) , or chisel (b)?

1. Her neediness betrays my powerlessness. Her cries summon my impotence. I am taut, strung across the bow, fragile sometimes, sometimes weak, sometimes resonant. There is a deep reservoir of love for this being, this child, this offspring of mine. Channeled falsely - dammed up lest it overflow. Restrained, not indulged.

2. Sunbeams chase each other across the lake, bouncing like Catholic school girls, skirts hitched up for a game of tag --eighth grade pubescents: legs pumping, breasts flopping, hair tumbling out of proper French braids.

3. You, you came along, a response to a thought still forming.
You, you showed up, an answer to a prayer unspoken
You walked in, sat on my, lap, put your arms around me, and told me it was so.

4. The hundred foot oaks, hands outstretched, form an arch of triumph over the school-side road; their limbs stretch like a banner, green leaves spelling out out the magic words, "Friday." Ushering children like crossing guards, swooshing them on their way. One by one, they come: minivans and SUV's, floats in the week-end parade. Delighted children, hopping in. Slam! goes the door on another week of school.

31 years is too long without going to KG.
But I'm back. Vicariously.

READING is exciting. Words so big I have to take a breath in the middle of them. Words so big I have no idea what they mean. But I OWN them, because I can read them. I read with the first graders who already read like second graders. But Alexander, show-off, gets to read with Mrs. Oberson. NO FAIR. But he got 'consequences' today. HAH!

K: Where did what come from?
Me: Huh?

Sniff, sniff, How come you don't like me and kids don't like me and everybody hates me and I feel like dust on the ground that somebody just brushes off them.

K: Where did 'WHAT' come from anyways? Why do we say 'WHAT' and not something else?
Me: Uh... Hmmm....

War wounds, weeks 1-3
1) Scrape on elbow
2) Skinned knee
3) Twisted ankle
4) ???

K: You mean I have to go to school for that many years? 13 years????? I don't want to go to school my whole life!
Me: You're right. That's horrible. Maybe we'll get a sailboat and get away from schools.

How come I fall down and nobody helps me? Other people fall down and people help them, but nobody helps me, nobody likes me.

Sa va? Ja m'apelle Kiran. Et twoi? Ferme la bousch. I speak French, and Hindi, and Tamil, and Spanish!

Can we play scrabble dad?

Finally got some links to other blogs. Credit where credit is due. You guys have awesome blogs. Not that anyone else reads my blog to link to you!

This blog was dead.

Limp as seaweed on driftwood, churned up and strewn on a lonely beach.

A bloated corpse, facedown in the sewage of the North Branch.

Imploded like a neutron star, sucking the life out of any emerging thought.

Acid corroding it's way up the wires of this once-12V battery. Drained. From disuse, overuse, a bad connection. "Must be the alternator," someone mumbled. "No, the regulator," someone disagreed. And $200 later it was deader than ever.

But now...

Three weeks off the tread-mill, in the outdoors, kickstarted my Mazda.
Zoom Zoom Zoom.
Three weeks of kindergarten have dusted off the grey-matter.
Ideas are given birth at faster than they can gestate.
I must write, I must revive, I MUST
resuscitate.
Punarjivan. Punarjivan. Punarjivan.

Hello?

Lately I have been feeling overwhelmed, something I would describe as a lack of centeredness.

Life can get to a point where the wheel of activity runs right over you and drags you behind it, maimed and bleeding.

There are times when life is chock full of action and reaction, stimulus and reflex. The best I can do is time management, adjustment of priorities. Then I feel a sense of control. But still, I am not fully alive.

In these times, I need contemplation. Not to think about scientific ideas, world events, or theological constructs. These are not contemplation. These are other ways of making sense of the world.

Contemplation, I think, is observing things while removing myself from the center of events. In contemplation, I am not thinking about how the person or event affects me or how I will respond. In contemplation, I have the freedom to gain a different perspective on a person or an event, because I am related to it as an observer, not a subject or object.

The pole of action is one in which my inner world is a complex system of emotional responses. Contemplation is another pole, where emotions are calmed, ideas are quieted, and I am able to gain new insights.

In contemplation I am not being driven, I am not driving; I am watching. I can watch a sunset and experience beauty. I can watch my sleeping daughter and see her completely differently, an "other", a person of worth and dignity. I can listen to my emotions and allow them to be expressed so they can stop shouting. I can replay conversations and interactions and hear what was really said.

Without contemplation, life can be a series of events that I am beholden to. Events like work, worship, fellowship, prayer, recreation are all things that must be done, gotten through. Without contemplation, I am a slave; I have no freedom. Contemplation frees me to choose to experience the events of life as a gift from God. Contemplation changes the tedious requirements of life

I found myself in the midst of a funeral procession, surrounded by young men from the Baghel Thakur jati. Amy Jo and I had moved into Shri Niwas Puri nearly two years earlier, eager to live intentionally among the poor. We wanted to make friends, to share their lives, to hear their stories, to serve them, and to communicate the good news of Jesus Christ. As I sat in the lead car of the akhira yatra, the final journey, I felt a kinship with my neighbors.

I remembered the sweltering summer day when Dev Lal approached me. “Friend,” he said, “follow me”. I followed him down our narrow alley to the little community temple, hoping we wouldn’t be going to far, me dressed in my lungi and all. Beyond the temple courtyard was a musty room, furnished with a half-dozen charpai and a couple of ceiling fans; young men lounging about, napping, shooting the breeze; khadi-clad elders gathered around the hookah. I was offered a toke on the pipe and a drink from the local well. A few days earlier I had expressed my loneliness to a shopkeeper. Word got around, and the guys had decided to extend their friendship. I was invited to come back as often as I liked. And I had. Often I would listen to the elders discuss the local gossip, negotiate community conflicts, and sometimes debate religious questions. I’d write down words I didn’t understand to look up later.

I was welcomed into a type of community that I had never experienced before. While no one (except for untold numbers of children and our landlady) ever felt comfortable dropping in on us, it was expected that I walk into their homes without knocking, whereupon I could expect to be offered tea or dinner. Often I would go watch TV with Netram, or hang out at the ice cream cart with Vinod. Slowly I was able to enter their world and see life from their perspective. Later, I was the guest of honor at Netram’s wedding, and indeed, I felt honored.

My wife, Amy Jo spent most of her time in the neighborhood. Her gentle spirit and sincere affection for people attracted the women and children. She immediately established a friendship with our landlady, Malti. Malti’s children Babita, Mumta, and Bala were the first to come see the strange foreigners. Then boisterous Puja and shy Punit. I learned my Hindi colors from games of UNO with these kids. Soon it was Anu, Nitu and Sonia, and then the girls from across the gully. It was all a bit overwhelming for me; I wanted more time alone, to think, to process. Amy Jo was welcoming the kids, and I was sending them away. Her heart came alive when she could shower affection on the children whose parents were busy struggling to make ends meet. So Amy Jo would color with the kids, and I’d be on the roof with my journal.

Amy Jo taught arts and crafts in a program for kids whose parents depended on them for their livelihoods. They were Bangledeshi, and they were Muslims, despised by our “less” poor neighbors. She willingly rubbed shoulders with the unlovely, pausing to hug a begging woman, to place the coin in the hands of a leper, to carry a dirty child. One boy in our neighborhood would constantly show off, seeking our attention. I couldn’t supress a dislike for his antics, but Amy Jo would praise him for his dancing and encourage his singing. He moved later, when his mother died, but he would travel far to see “Auntie,” who reserved a special compassion for him.

Amy Jo and I seized every opportunity to deepen our relationships and to experience our neighbor’s lives. We sat in the shade and sweated with our them during power outages. We slept with Malti’s family on the roof. We went with Malti and her family to nearby dramas and festivals. We traveled together to Malti’s village for a weekend. Together we celebrated holidays, weddings, and births. And there were deaths.

Now, in the funeral procession, the akhira yatra, I couldn’t help but think how this might yet again strengthen our ties, open hearts, allow the hope of the gospel to be communicated. I wanted to know what they thought about the afterlife, what their customs were, how they coped with death. I had seen the grace and resilience of India’s poor as they bore suffering after suffering, and I wanted to experience it.

A young woman, Asha, had died unexpectedly, suddenly, leaving her husband with a newborn girl.

I had witnessed it all, watched the community respond. The news travelled quickly, and people gathered to hear the details, to see the baby, to lay hands of condolance on the husband, still in shock.

Asha had enjoyed a healthy pregnancy and the community was sharing her joy. Then, in her eighth month of pregnancy, she developed severe headaches. She was treated at the nearest hospital, where few of her neighbors could gain access. Her friends were concerned, and prayed to their gods: Sai Baba, Mata Di, Shri Krishna. Somewhat unusual for this neighborhood, Asha was Isai, a follower of Jesus. Her family prayed fervently for Jesus to heal her. Her child was delivered premature – a girl. She briefly survived the surgery to remove the tumor from her brain, but lost then lost conciousness and died.

When the new father returned from the hospital with the news, there was a gasp of unbelief. She had been so healthy, just days before. News spread quickly, and before long the room was crowded with people, laying their hands on him in silent condolence.

There was sorrow, and there was joy. There was death, and there was life. Asha (meaning hope) had died, and Kiran (meaning sunshine) was born.

Arrangements were quickly made for the funeral. “Would she be cremated?” they wondered. What do Isai people do? When they found out about the burial customs, the elders protested. They wanted a viewing in the community. They eventually settled on accompanying her body from the hospital to the cemetery for a viewing there. The journey was the key. A chance to send her off. To say goodbye.

One devout young man urged everyone to come; Asha, in a dream, had implored them all to be there. A collection was made to rent a bus, no small thing for these working-class people. I was compelled by my friends to travel with them in a car at the front of the procession; we were followed by the bus and the ambulance, bearing the casket. I sat arm in arm with them, respectfully silent, absorbed in thought.

And then we entered the cemetery, where each person took a final look; some sprinkled flower petals on the woman’s body. Asha’s grief-stricken parents followed in turn, her mother pausing to weep. I too took a final look, but my eyes did not linger. A glance was enough to see that her soul had departed, leaving only a lifeless shell. I wanted to cry, but I could not. I was numb, in shock. Because this experience, shared as it was with my neighbors, was more personal still. The widower was me, the baby girl was mine, and lying in the casket was “Asha”, my wife.

I looked around at those who shared my grief. American friends and family, Australian and Kiwi team mates, Christian brothers and sisters from the four corners of India. And the Hindi-speaking neighbors we had come to serve. Thirty women or so. Malti, our landlady, a widower herself. Jayanti, Om Prakash’s wife. Om Butti. I walked over to sit with the men: the elders of the community; Netram, whose wedding I had attended; Krishn, Malti’s son; Dev Lal’s father, the pradhan, also a widower.

I had never experienced such quiet in India before. I could hear the wind chasing the birds through the trees. In Shri Niwas Puri, where 200 families occupied a single block, there was always the shouts of children, the subsi vendor, the cry of a baby, the temple music, the call to prayer. But here, in a sacred moment, there was silence.

Kiran and I moved back into Shri Niwas Puri a few weeks later, with daily visits from my team mates. I wasn’t expected to stay, but this was home. I wasn’t ready to leave. Nothing really went right in those weeks. I was fighting both American expectations and Indian traditions. I was fighting myself. But the loss was so deep, the hurt so acute, I couldn’t bring myself to let go just yet: to relinquish the dreams we had dreamt, the relationships we had nurtured, the identity we had chosen. And sticking it out had other benefits: hearing about the love my neighbors had for Amy Jo, and receiving consolation from them.

My neighbors knew Asha, the person Amy Jo had become. They were able to share memories that few back home would relate too. As I listened to my them, I heard the sadness, the unbelief, the loss of one they had loved. They praised Asha, who had been so loving to the neighborhood kids. “God knew she would never get to love her own”, they said. Malti was close to Amy Jo. In many ways they were kindred spirits. Like Amy Jo, she exuded peace and gentleness. She was poor, but lived her live joyfully. At Asha’s memorial service, Malti eulogized:

“Asha was like a member of our family. She loved us a lot. We went so many places together with Amy Jo. We used to share meals. We thought a lot of her. She loved us so very much!”

There is no doubt that consolation was meaningful coming from those who had been through deep loss. Hindi, like English, has its trite proverbs at the ready. “What God does is good,” was tossed at me more than once. But most of my neighbors had experienced heart-wrenching deaths of at least one family member, something less common in the States.

In the coming weeks Malti would share her story with me. Her husband had been a drinker and gambler, and when he died in an autorickshaw accident, she was left with four young children and nearly broke. Her father-in-law allowed Malti to stay on his son’s property, but he didn’t give a single penny towards his grandchildren’s needs. She was forced to abandon her children during the day to make a pitiful wage in a factory. She told me how much better things are now, but how, sometimes, when no one is looking, she still bears her grief in tears. I wondered if I would be able to bear my tragedy as gracefully as she. It was from Malti, more than anyone else, that I gathered hope. And it is hope by which we, the broken, endure.