The Fields and Clouds All Passing

We got on the train in Delhi for the day and a half journey south, to a city just north of Chennai. Traveling on a train overbooked since the beginning of April, Anna and I had gotten choice window seats just two days before by ordering at the Foreign Tourist Quota office.
In our compartment were 6 men in white gowns and prayer caps- Sri Lankan Islamic missionaries to this Hindu nation. I was a little skittish - should we trade seats into a compartment with more women? Reluctant to give up our sweet seats we stayed. It turned out to be a good choice. The men were very nice, offering us food and asking to buy us tea, but refusing anything we wanted to share -"Sorry, it's not Halim." "Please don't take offence, but no, you may not take our pictures, there should be no images of the image of God."

As the sun went down the men washed out of their bucket of clean water and then kneeling on the upper bunk and the lower bench performed their prayers. Soon after, they were ready for bed. So Anna and I obliged by letting them make up the middle bunk - the cushion board that forms the back of the bench- and settled for the night on our respective bottom bunks. "Please don't mind us when we get up at 4 am to pray in the isle. We will try not to disturb you." "OK"

The missionaries got off on the afternoon of the second day and soon their seats were filled with a family.

A melody softly soaring through my atmosphere

I snapped her picture and she grinned when I showed it to her. She insisted we show her mom. Her mom was traveling to Chennai for surgery. With a plastic pipe sticking out of her trachea she was too tired and uncomfortable to even smile at the excitement of her six year old. All week I've been dying for communication with the people I come across, speaking slowly with lots of hand gestures in English and Bengali, but few people speak enough English for a conversation and no one yet (besides my traveling companion) speaks Bengali. The little girl's smile was hard won.

A little while later I stuck an earphone into the little girl's ear. She recoiled. I went back to my window and disk player. A few minutes later she came over beside me. She pulled an earphone from my ear and held it to hers. She was astonished to hear music playing and sat completely still until the song finished. She looked at me sharply. "What happened??" "Just a minute," my hands told her. Soon she was again enraptured in the music. As the disk spun and "The Phoenix Foundation" album gave way to "Newvale" and then "Our Lady Peace" the little girl grew less still. One hand clutching the music to her ear she began swaying. Upon realizing the earbud would sat in her ear on it's own accord she began imitating my air drumming, which she interpreted as something resembling disco dancing, which progressed to full-fledged Hindi dancing, surely a first for OLP.

She had slipped off the seat for better Hindi moves, dancing as far as the cord would allow, laughing and flinging her arms when her dad turned around from helping her mom eat.

"IF YOU ARE GOING TO LISTEN TO MUSIC SIT STILL!"

I don't understand any Telugu language, but that is what his tone said. A serious little girl crawled up beside me.

Later, as I got ready for the night, I gave her both ear plugs for a while. Once again, her face registered surprise. OH!! "Can I hear?" intoned her father. She held out one earphone. I watched in horror as the soft earbuds that usually nestle deep in MY ear canals passed around to All Six other people in the cabin. Good thing no major diseases spread by earwax.

Then it was bed time and she joined her dad on the top bunk, her mom crawled onto the middle one and on the lowest bunk my player spun a few "Bonnie 'Prince' Billy" albums before our midnight arrival in Chirala.

You gotta serve somebody

Shobna runs the social justice office for a church in Delhi. We dropped by on Sunday to talk to her and hear about the ways her church is involved in caring for people living with HIV and AIDS.

Three years ago the church adopted a widow and her family, after the husband died of AIDS. Now the church is caring for 6 families. "We care for them like one of our own congregation," Shobna told me. The 3-4 volunteers visit the family at least once a month to talk and build friendships. They give health advice about hygiene and nutrition and if the family doesn't mind, prays and read the Bible with them. Every month they also give these families 10 kg rice, 1 kg dal and 1 kg oil, equivalent to about 400 rupees a month per family, donated by the church.

Every year the church celebrates world AIDS Sunday in December, raising AIDS as a justice issue that Christians are mandated to care about. Families that don't have time to volunteer can donate money towards food, or pray for the families and the volunteers who care for them. Everyone is urged to get involved.

It is exciting to see a church working with an organization like this to care for people in it's community. Though it's hard to find volunteers, the whole church is committed to doing justice and showing mercy and compassion to people in need. I am left hungering for a longer visit. I want to see if it works as ideally as my idealist vision would have it. I want to meet the families and chat with the volunteers. But today all we have time for is a meeting with Sabna, and I am encouraged by the peek at heaven on display here.

If you were in my movie

The Red Fort in Delhi is huge and beautiful. Soaring pavilions of sand stone and lovely marble palaces lie in perfect order with in the ramparts. However, the palaces are much more locked up than the Agra Red Fort. Tourists are forbidden access to the most beautiful buildings, including the baths and the mosque. Argh!
I love to explore the buildings. To oh and ah over the scalloped marble and the arching doorways, and thus have a history of entering spaces I'm not supposed to go in. This time was a little tough, but I managed anyways.
One of the guards keeping everyone out came over and asked if he could take a picture of me with his phone. I shrugged, and scowled a bit, and he took the photo. A few seconds later we came over to his building, the breathtaking rooms where the Mogul King lived. I grinned at the guard and said, "Can we please step over the rope into the palace and see the veranda?" He looked a little nervous, but went over to the other guard who said, "Ok, just for a minute."

There we were, the only people in the elaborate marble palace, standing in the center of the room with the balcony where the king used to greet the sunrise each morning, the whole of Delhi before us.

We "oh"ed and "ah"ed appropriately, and as the guards got progressively more nervous, took some photos. By the time we crossed back to the side tourists belong on, other people had crossed the rope. The guards were immediately busy, chasing children and threatening adults, as Anna and I walked away laughing.

Later we crossed around towards the back of the palace compounds where there were no guards. Many of the marble pavilions had been defaced, the gemstone decorations had been pried loose, and only empty sockets remained where there had once been glorious water gardens. Looks like the guards are needed.

Three Hours from Sundown

I'm sitting by the window and looking over the green hills of Northeastern India. The town is layered on thin terraces on the steep mountain sides. It's cool to see. There are hundreds of churches here - I'm not exaggerating. They are everywhere, like mosques in Dhaka. However, this quiet hillside community is harboring a thriving drug trade, and one of the highest HIV prevalences in India.

Yesterday we visited some families affected by HIV and AIDS. The first family had migrated from Burma and, being outsiders, were unable to get decent jobs. They made use of their connection to Burma and began selling drugs. They were destitute, living on the edges of town on the road to the prison, in a dirty little house. The father was infected by injecting drugs; his wife, probably through sex with her husband. Of the children the 4 year old is infected and the 3 month old was uncertain. The father has quit his drug habit and is valiantly trying to live a decent life in society. He has gotten a job building roads, which pays OK, when he is able to work. But to stay healthy they all need good nutrition and medicine for the every day sickness to which they are vulnerable. Today the whole family is in the clinic to get treatment for diarrhea. Another day in which the father can not work and yesterdays nutrition is flushed down the toilet.

Both of the parents of the other family I visited used to sell drugs, and the father injected them. They have since stopped, and the man has gotten a job as a day laborer. This is a difficult environment for an ex-addict. He is encouraged by his workmates to go drinking after work, a waste of precious money, and a temptation to return to drugs. So far he has remained clean.
His wife, unfortunately is desperately ill very often. The oldest son (14) missed crucial school exams to take care of his mom, when she was sick with pneumonia. Now he has dropped out. The five year old had been sent to live with her grandparents in another state, as the parents could not support another mouth. The 2 year old was in the hospital for respiratory problems with the dad. The dad, the day laborer, and could not work for the days he is in the hospital with the baby. What will happen to this fragile existence when the mother dies? when a few years later the father dies? Who will provide nutritious food for these parents to live a few years longer? Who will provide emotional support to people who are dying?

The families are destitute, no money for rent or even food sometimes. The neighbors know that they are poor (obviously) and often sick, but don't know the respective families are HIV+. The families are terrified of their neighbors discovering their status. If the landlord knew he would invariably kick them out.

These HIV affected families are "Christian" (here, EVERYONE is christian). In an attempt to integrate in their community, the Burmese family joined the local church - tithing and paying cemetery fees, though for a variety of reasons they don't get to church very often. In return they get nothing from the church. No visits, no meals when they are sick, nothing. They are terrified of disclosing their HIV infected status for fear of the discrimination that will bring, even (or especially) within the church. These people are trying so hard to turn their life around, but the barriers seem to rise ever higher. I am frustrated and mad at the churches for not doing anything to help the poor and sick in their community.

There are good churches though. The organization we are visiting here got kicked out of their office three times because of the people they associate with - injecting drug users. They have now found a sympathetic neighborhood/church area where the pastor and elders support their work and the recovering drug addicts. The Positive Network has done various seminars on HIV and AIDS which seem to make some inroads against discrimination in a congregation that is open minded.

It is urgent that the community, ideally the churches, recognise and accept the people living with HIV and AIDS. The church is called to compassion, and around the world where the church has accepted the challenge it has made a wonderful difference in many lives. But overcoming the silence and judgment cast by the moral majority is a daunting task.

For the Price of a Cup of Tea

I'm spending the next few weeks traveling in India observing communities living with HIV and AIDS and visiting programs that support them. Particularly seeing what the role of the church can be, should be and could be.

I began my journey today by flying to Kolkata where I was to meet the other members of the Bangladesh-India team who are all here for various reasons. However, when my colleague came a few days ago her luggage got sent to London instead of getting off the plane in India with her, so the rest of the team is staying in a different hotel closer to the airport (all the better to reclaim the luggage on the late flight) and I am enjoying Kolkata on my own.
And how better to enjoy Kolkata than a cup of tea and a lemon tart at Flurrys? Mmmm.

Flurrys makes me nostalgic for earlier trips, trips with better company than "The Economist" magazine. This photo is dedicated to Jeremy and Ananbel, my traveling companions of yore.