On the Road to Kasauli ... the start

On the Road to Kasauli ...the start

I awake at 5:30 and I am grateful for a full night's rest. I am surprised because I do not hear any drums this morning. For the last six days, drums and singing are part of the morning schedule. For most of the days, I am awake already so they did not disturb my sleep. After I rise, I make some instant coffee and hurriedly take in my Bible reading. I read 2nd Timothy 4. Paul knows he will soon leave the earth and it makes me sad. I sense Paul is sad. He is not sad because he is leaving this world but because there are so many unfinished things yet to be done. I can relate.

 

I get ready and we meet at the car in front of the school. Aaron, my friend and colleague, says he has a pain in his neck and decides to stay back and rest. The rest of us make ready to leave. We pack, pray and argue over who will ride in the back. When we turn right out of the complex there is a dirt pile in the road. Everyone who drives on the road will have to move to a single lane an inevitably drive over some of the dirt. If it isn’t moved, it will be flattened and spread out until there is a small hill in the road. It perplexes me. We are not out of town long before we see a car overturned on the right. It looks like the accident just happened. We did not see any major injuries but it does prompt me to send text to Ginger and tell her what I am doing today….just in case. Further down the road we come across a train and have to wait so I think about counting the cars but a beggar comes to my window. She has a girl with her who is about six year old. The child's hair is short and partially dyed blond. I want to give her something but those in the car with me tell me I shouldn't. She persists and I struggle. My heart wants to give her something but my head says no. The driver gives her a hard look and shakes his head. She leaves. I still struggle. The train is through and we drive on.

 

We pass many carts drawn by horses or bulls carrying loads of local fare. On all my trips to India one thing never changes. Well to be honest many things never change. There are whole families on motor bikes, perfectly clean restaurants that look dirty, women in bright colored clothing, aromatic spices, spicy hot food, super sweet sweets and the beat and trill of Hindi music. There is the Indian head role, the eyes that laugh, the mehndi tattoos, the long beautiful dark hair of women and bindi beauty marks on their forehead. There are mangy dogs, cows roaming freely, bicycles loaded down with goods, colorful dump trucks and road side tea shops with bags of chips hanging on poles.  There are the monsoons, the summer heat and humidity and the winter dry browns. There is the ever honking, beeping, blaring, tweeting and even a short four note scale of the Indian vehicular horn. These things never change and most of them are enjoyable or at least tolerable. There is one thing that I am not able to tolerate.

Maybe it is just a self-preservation thing or an inability on my part to rest in my eternal security. Whatever it is I sigh in relief when I no longer experience it. On this trip and on my last trip to India I experience this phenomenon much more frequently. To be fair, many westerners and all native Indians get over this and happily enjoy their lives in this great country. This is my problem. I recognize this. We all have those things that increase our faith or are our thorn in the flesh. This one is mine. I believe the last trip my heart began to go out of sync from this cultural norm (I have PAC's). This trip my heart has been scared back into sync. No electrical shock needed! At this point, you may say I am being dramatic. Maybe but not too much.The best way to explain this thrilling, exciting, heart quickening occurrence is with a story. Since I have already taken longer than I should, we will have that story next blog.

On the Train to Ludiana

My mind absorbs the images of people, animals, and geography as it passes by my window. With only a few seconds to understand what I am seeing, I imagine the rest. Men standing on the tracks discussing cricket, football and politics. Women walking home in bright colored sarees wondering what they will cook for dinner. A stork stands tall gazing into water immersed fields looking out over his kingdom.

Rows of plants drinking the fertile Indian water that unlike me will not make them sick. Trains pass each other in opposite directions making a worsshh sound. The air between them is crushed by the speed of the passing and has nowhere to go. We travel on to where a road intersects the train tracks. Here, lines of people wait in bikes, cars, auto rickshaws and on their feet. They wonder if the train will come to an end soon. A child counts the cars. A woman carries a jug on her head thinking how her children will go to school. A man rides a bike loaded down with goods. He wonders when he can buy his uncles motor bike.

 

Then there are the roads. The endless roads that have borne the weight of Indian humanity, provided direction and given free passage to its travelers. They take men and women, soldiers and sailors, saints and sinners home to those they are bound together with their hearts. A family rides on a motor scooter on their way to buy groceries and enjoy a meal from a street vendor. I pass a garbage dump filled with Indian waste. Beside it grows a lush green field of corn and I wonder.

As the day becomes night I can see very little so I think about her. Her savory spices. Her pungent smells. Her reflective eyes. Her diverse beauty. Her abundant children. Her suffocating heat. Her delightful fruit. Her welcomed monsoons. Her distinctive music. Her stomach turning filth. Her copious gods. Her heart wrenching disasters. Her constant poverty. Her massive wealth.  She is a mystery… a contrast. At times I am disgusted and made sick. At other times, I am in awe of her. She teases and intrigues me.  She is home to a sixth of earth's humanity… so many souls, so many languages, such richness and depth of culture. When she sees me she wonders who I am and why would I come to her? She grabs my heart and asks “what kind of lover are you?” 

I have questions for her. Does she know who she is? Does she know she is great, brilliant, beautiful and strong? Does she know she is rich in her poverty, ancient in her youth, fertile in her filth? Does her greed feed the endless, unsatisfying, sucking black hole in the heart? Has she thought about the depth of her iniquity and what it cost her only true lover?  Does she know she is wanted, needed and loved? Do those who love her know her? Would they willingly suffer for her? Would they sacrifice their best for her? Would they die for her? I know someone who would, who does, who has. He asks her to come to Him… but will she go?