India!

I’m here in India! The journey went smoothly; all the connections were made and Raju and Joyce picked me up at the airport in Bangalore. God was so faithful the whole way there, showing me exactly where to go and what to do. His presence was very near. He really does guide those who trust in Him! On the flight from Toronto to Frankfurt, I sat beside an older man from Pakistan and we had a great conversation. Then from Bangalore to Frankfurt, I sat beside a young man from Kolkata, West Bengel. In both cases, I really felt that God had completely orchestrated the seating arrangements.

My first glimpse of India was seeing the glittering little lights way down below from the plane. I think we may have entered over Goa, but I’m not sure. The airport in Bangalore wasn’t much different from Toronto and Frankfurt, just lots of Indian people everywhere! I was able to make friends with a girl named Mahdavi – we took the same flight. She was very helpful and kind. We ended up waiting together at the baggage claim … it took forever for our bags to finally come through! I was so nervous that my suitcase would end up in another country, but it all worked out fine.

Raju and Joyce are wonderful. The drive from the airport to their home is fairly a blur. All I could see in the dark were city lights, silhouettes of buildings and a very long highway. Raju is a fast, unpredictable driver. Driving is much different here … the stoplights seem to be all over the place, people swerve and honk and cut in front of each other. The steering wheel is on the right side, and people drive on the left side of the road.

Someone told me that when you get off the plane in India, there is a certain smell in the air. I found this to be true! I can’t explain exactly what kind of smell – it’s something like sweetness mingled with dirt.

The Mathew’s house is very clean and comfortable. After calling my parents to inform them I had arrived safely, Raju and Joyce showed me around the house, and helped me get set up in the guest room. It was very simple and plain, but comfortable, with a wide bed and a glassed-in bookshelf. The mattress felt very different. It was thick, and very hard, but perfectly fine. After we said a prayer together, we all went to sleep.

The next morning I woke up with the sun streaming through the window. The windows of the house have bars on the inside, with a unique diamond-looking pattern, which lets the sunshine in quite beautifully. The first thing I noticed when looking out the window, was the massive palm tree growing right out of the stone marble of the courtyard. The view from the window was beautiful … as far as I could see were trees and shrubs of various beauty, and homes of different sizes and shapes. The colours are so bright and vibrant here, especially the vivid greens!

For breakfast Joyce served me black tea (which was delicious) and toast with Indian jam (also delicious). She’s very sweet. I feel so blessed to be allowed to stay with them.

There are Bible verses on plaques all over the house. In the living room there’s a painting of a waterfall (probably somewhere in India) and it has this verse on it:

“You did not choose Me, but I chose you and appointed you so that you might go and bear fruit – fruit that will last -- and so that whatever you ask in My name the Father will give you” (John 15:16).

This verse spoke to me a lot, but I have yet to fully understand its significance. I find myself feeling slightly overwhelmed, not in an anxious way, but in a puzzled sort of way. India. It’s here, all around me. It's no longer a National Geographic picture on my bedroom wall – it’s a living, breathing reality – people, animals, trees. I can’t really explain it.

There’s a large balcony on the rooftop. It reminded me of when Rahab hid the two spies in flax on her roof. It was a lovely view. But looking closer, I noticed something else. Down below was a little shack with a corrugated tin roof and clothes hanging haphazardly outside. A woman in a bright pink and yellow sari was bent over a rock scrubbing clothes. Her little children tinkered around the house, sometimes calling to each other, or playing in the dirt. My first thought was, “Do they live there?” Nearby were some young men building a concrete structure. When I asked Joyce about them, she said the shack is a temporary home for them, until their new house is built. When I first ascended the balcony, I brought my camera to take a picture, but suddenly it didn’t seem very important when I noticed the family below. These aren’t just people, nameless faces on a magazine, they are real, they have names and lives and problems just like everyone else … and they are deeply loved by Jesus. It’s hard to express, but I'm beginning to find it hard to take pictures. To me this is all so new and different, but it is common everyday life to these people.

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At about 2:00 in the afternoon, we were picked up by a friend of Raju and Joyce’s and taken to the train station as planned. The car ride through Bangalore was very interesting, my first real view of the city. Traffic is crazy – no one follows any rules of the road and people are constantly honking at each other. It actually made me want to laugh at how crazily we bumbled along. Bangalore city is very crowded and congested. Buildings of all shapes and sizes, garbage strewn at the edges of the streets, towering palm trees, people everywhere. Animals roam the streets as freely as people do. Cows wander everywhere (they are considered sacred in India) and mangy stray dogs burrow through garbage piles. Everything seems squeezed together randomly. Tons of different shops clumped together on the edges of the roads, where items are piled up inside and outside the stores. Women sitting on mats on street corners, selling fruits and vegetables. Drug stores, grocery stores, hardware, clothing, technology, toys. A vendor offering wreaths of fresh-smelling jasmine flowers. Dirty little shacks pressed against white-washed buildings, glamorous jewelry stores next to a family selling bananas. The city is a mixture of modern commercialism and farmers' markets. Beauty and sadness and poverty and wealth all mingled together.

People are everywhere. On buses, sitting on sidewalks, talking in doorways, walking, selling, buying. Many people travel on motorcycles – sometimes entire families, a child sitting up front, the man driving, his wife behind him. The Indians are so beautiful. Women are dressed in bright coloured saris of all different kinds of patterns. Colours you wouldn’t think of putting together: mint green and beige, pumpkin orange and brown with sequins, mustard yellow, peacock blue, fushia and deep purple, lavendar silk edged in gold, turquoise and white. Their shiny black hair is often oiled and put into one long braid, or coiled at the back of their head, sometimes adorned with jasmine flowers. Many women wear gold bangles, necklaces, earrings and nose rings. The men are usually thin and muscled with very shiny hair. Usually they wear regular shirts and pants, but sometimes you’ll see them wearing a towel-like skirt called a dhoti. The children are sooooo adorable, little boys and girls with huge black eyes and brightly coloured clothes. Little girls with very short hair, school girls in ribboned braids, boys in shorts and bare feet. One thing I really noticed about the Indian people, is that most of them are thin and small. The majority of children are very tiny with stick-like legs. Seeing that made me realize that many of them are malnourished.

The train ride to Salem was very interesting. Noisy and crowded. Men and women were selling things right on the train, walking up and down the aisles shouting their wares: “Tea!” “Coffee!” “Samose!” One young women in an orange sari, had a huge tin bucket on her head, which she managed to balance very well, despite the jostling of the train. The sellers are very pushy, repetitive, and they stare at you a lot! At first I found this a little intrusive and irritating, but then I realized that they are trying to make a living the only way they can. Many of the wares are vegetables and fruits they have grown themselves.

Once we were out of the city, I was thankful I was sitting by the window, which offered a wonderful view of the countryside. So much beauty to be seen. Forests of palm trees, paddy fields, endless green. Children herding cows or goats down dirt paths, men and women hunched over in fields. Every so often we would come to another village or town. Street crossings, with herds of motorcycles. At the junctions, people wait for the exact moment when the train stops and then hustle themselves on, pushing and shoving inside. One women outside my window shoved a package through the bars of the window, motioning for me to take it, which I did, not knowing what to do. Then she came on and sat beside us. I guess it was a way for her to secure a spot. Joyce told me to avoid that next time. 

Two of Joyce’s friends came with us on the trip to Salem: Israel and Dorothi John. Dorothi (which is pronounced “Doro-ti”) is the sweetest older lady ever. The moment she saw me, she smiled very warmly and kindly. Everyone is so loving; they treat me as their very own. It’s such a blessing to be with them all ... there is no room for loneliness!

The drive through Salem was another bumpy, crazy one. Salem is busy, noisy, crowded … doesn’t seem to be much different from Bangalore. One thing specifically caught my eye during the drive. We were winding through a crowded street and I noticed a little girl wandering barefoot around a dump. It’s hard to tell if children are orphaned, because there are so many children everywhere, sometimes there are adults nearby, sometimes not. My heart lurched when I saw this little girl and I couldn’t help but wonder, “Is she an orphan? Does she have parents? Where will she get her food?” Then we turned a corner and I lost sight of her. I suppose I’ll never know.

In Salem, we stayed at Joyce’s parents house. Joyce’s mother is a tiny little Indian lady with streaked grey hair and a friendly smile. She cooked us a supper of chapatti (flat bread), chicken curry, rice, and dal (lentils). The Indians eat with their fingers. I tried this for the first time and it was very odd, but I’m sure I’ll get used to it.

There are SO many things to write, I can’t possibly describe it all. So far everything has been wonderful. God is faithful and near to me always, showing me what to do and say. How can I thank Him enough for His goodness? It’s so strengthening being around people of such great faith. The Indian Christians are so strong and faithful. Their faith is not just a part of their life, it IS their life. Before we went to bed the second night, we all gathered in the living room to pray. Joyce read from the Scriptures and then her father prayed. In the middle of his prayer, I struggled very hard not to cry. His love for the Lord and others was so evident. At one point he said, “…and thank you for bringing our dear ones from Bangalore.” It was so beautiful.

That night as I lay wide awake, unable to sleep (the ceiling fan made a constant racket), I tried to make sense of everything and found that quite impossible. I was filled with an inexplicable feeling of joy and humbled thankfulness and surprise and sadness ... And my thoughts kept going back to that little girl, who was probably an orphan, scampering alone through the dark street.