i always feel a pressure to make the first and last of something extra special…the beginning should set the tone of the event and the last summarize the experience. i put extra emphasis on something that when placed within the context of the whole story, is really just another page in the story; no more or less important than any other entry… all of this is to say, this post ends the chapter in my indian adventure.

i rolled away in the taxi this morning, leaving behind dear friends. i knew this day would come, the goodbye was inevitable; but that doesn’t make it any easier. how can people, known for only a short time, be so difficult to leave? i cannot begin to explain to you all of the emotions the past two weeks have held, so i won’t try…the people and places, the memories and encouragement. i’ll tuck away these special moments for myself and savor them in the days in the valley to come.

as i left mussoorie and the place which for the past season has been home, i almost retrieved my camera to capture the scene. but over the past year, multiple attempts have proven inadequate and i’ve given up trying. eyes still wet, i soaked in the view and committed it to memory. i thought back to my first drive into these hills last august…i wondered then, if i would ever get used to the beauty, i hoped i would never take for granted the vastness… as we swerved and curved our way down the mountain i realized today it was more beautiful than it had ever been. some things never feel normal.

tonight, a plane seat awaits to carry me out of this beautiful country. i’m off to hong kong for a few days to unwind, visit a university, and spend time with a friend.
what’s after that? ha. that’s a good question.
back to the plains of kansas for the summer; a part time job awaits to satisfy my graphic nature and gives me time to pursue some freelance projects and a possible photography show…all things to keep me processing and decompressing from this year.
you really do have to recover from a year in india.
and then after that? whoow…i can’t go there yet. i’m still in india!
perhaps…sustainability in the developing world…graduate school…teaching in asia…?! yikes. it’s too much to take in; one step at a time…for now, i’m thinking san francisco.
i’ll tell you more about it later.

so, how was india? the other inevitable question that i still haven’t figured out how to answer. don’t be surprised if you see a bewildered look on my face as you wait for a response. no doubt there will be unforeseen battles while standing in grocery store aisles and looking at clothing price tags. i ask for your grace and patience with me as i adjust back to the place i came from and a culture which brought me up as i try to combine the old and new me. i hope i do less talking about how india changed me and more living it.
thank you for following along with me in this indian adventure. i have a feeling there are many more reading and watching this journey unfold than i may ever know.
i pr in the middle of one of my musings, you found encouragement.
i ask in the midst of one of my struggles, you were lifted up.
i hope somewhere along my story, you saw truth and then, i hope you went beyond it.

at His feet.
.jill

one more hike in the mountains; eric and i traversed our way to pepper pot on this, my last saturday. it’s been on my list of things to do, and eric’s been gone for 2 weeks, unable to help me cross it off. we never really found a path, a storm unexpectedly chased us under a tree to avoid the hail, and we spent the rest of the time slipping and sliding on wet leaves. it only seemed appropriate…we’ve rarely been successful where paths are concerned. that’s what makes it an adventure. we’ve spent the past 10 months together, immersing ourselves in this indian culture and trying to find our place in this organization. we’ve both seen the other grow up and out in the things the Father has revealed. as we walked… er… traversed the mountain, we reflected on the past year and our experiences. it’s good to have another to work it out and talk it through with. the goofy guy i used to roll my eyes at when we first arrived, i realize i’m really going to miss.

the mountain. [chapman]

i want to build a house upon this mountain,
way up high where the peaceful waters flow
to quench my thirsty soul, up on the mountain

i can see for miles upon this mountain
troubles seem so small they almost disappear
Lrd, i love it here, up on the mountain

my faith is strengthened by all that i see.
You make it easy for me to believe,
up on the mountain.

i would love to live upon this mountain
and keep the pain of living life so far away
i know i can’t stay, up on the mountain

i said i’d go Lrd wherever You lead
for where You are is where i most want to be
and i can tell we’re headed for the valley

my faith is strengthened by all that i see
so Lrd, help me to remember what You told me,
up on the mountain

You bring up here on the mountain,
for me to rest to learn and grow.
i see the Truth up on the mountain,
and i carry it to the world far below.

so as i go down to the valley,
knowing that You will go with me.
this is my prayer, Lrd, help me remember,
what you’ve showed me, up on the mountain.

i cherish these times up on the mountain
but i can leave this place because i know,
someday You’ll take me home to live forever,
up on the mountain…way up on the mountain.

as i’ve reflected on my season here, i see how much my time here in india has been literally and figuratively represented by living here on the mountain. i feel as if i’ve been given glimpses of a bigger picture, i’ve been allowed to see further than i was able to see before. there is a direction to follow, i can see it from high above. but now, i have to leave this lookout place and move back into the valley to pursue it; to follow the path that’s not always clear; though the destination is more clear, the journey there is not.

we just clicked. right from the beginning, as i sat on the bed in the room her family eats/sleeps/entertains in, i knew she would be one of those kind of friends i would connect with deeply. she has this magnetic personality that draws me to her and leaves me sad when we part. if i could, i would try to fit her in my suitcase and take her home with me. but then i’d be depriving mother india of one of her most beautiful daughters, asha.

teaching indians english and foreigners hindi, she is well known in the community. few pass us without her cheerful ‘nameste’ as playfully she argues with the shopkeepers for our goods. i feel taken care of as i walk besides on the streets of mussoorie. the middle of five children, she is the oldest left at home and runs the household…cleaning, chapattis, and laundry. her days are full yet she still makes time for me. saturday nights in oaklands are not only blessings for us, but escape from her responsibilities at home. she loves taking a shower without having to go outside and sleeping in a room void of the rest of her family. in the morning, we both indulge in filtered coffee and peanut butter toast. i sit across from her on the couch, the mugged, warm goodness, still resting in our hands as we share our stories…

‘our life is very different from other chr-stian’s we know,’ she declares from the beginning.

her parent’s had four girls until the gods finally gave them a boy. it was because of her father’s drinking that they lost their house. often he hit, other times he just yelled, ‘our family was broken, very broken.’ although he was allowed to keep his job at the international school, he lost the privilege of staff housing. asha was only seven when she saw all of their belongings on the side of the road; an image still frozen in her mind. there was no place to go, no house to find, no one to help. no one, that is, except judith. she and other chr-stians in the community welcomed asha and her family into their homes. ‘before then, nobody wanted us and i felt so alone.’ life after that was never the same.

their new friends told them about a Gd who was different from the others; He was personal and full of love. ‘before, i never knew what to do or who to turn to. J-sus changed my life. i am not a chr-stian, i am a believer in J-sus.’ there’s a difference and asha understand it. all the females in the family came to faith and began attending the local chrch. her father came as well, but more out of respect for the people who had done so much for his family. relatives rejected their new beliefs and believed there was something evil in their family, but ‘we never stopped believing. i knew Gd was Truth. when J-sus came, peace came to our house and for the first time, i felt real joy.’

after several years, they were given a small room and adjacent kitchen in the school’s staff housing where they have remained for the past thirteen years. the family that once rejected them, later found refuge between her family’s walls as they lost their own housing. ‘we forgave them. we didn’t want them to go through what we went through.’ her father still drinks, but he no longer hits or goes to the temple; he’s changing, everyone can see it. ‘if we keep pr-ying, he will come.’

asha and her family have become the backbone in the small community. though they are the only light in their neighborhood, they shine brightly. ‘we are all humans and sometimes i’m mean and sometimes others are mean to me. but i want to forgive; i want to make friends not enemies. i want to love them. i want them to know the Truth and hope that they see it in us as well. they come to us for pr-yer when they’re not at peace or healthy. they know we worship a Gd who answers our pr-yers.’

our time together often ends with pr-yer to that same powerful Gd. she petitions in hindi while, at the same time, i lift up english words. this time i cry; i cannot stop the tears nor the thoughts of how precious she is to me. i wonder when or even if, i will see her again. i want to be there when her arms are covered with henna for her wedding day. we need more time to cook together and watch silly bollywood movies late into the night. i want to take walks and drink chai, go shopping and have dance parties… but for now, i have to leave my indian friend and trust that someday, our Father will allow our paths to cross again.

as we part, she hands me a crumpled piece of paper. a new nose ring, a big smile rises across my face. she had taken me to get it pierced and as long as my nose is indian, i’ll have her with me.

i almost forgot to tell you about it! a staple in the day’s schedule, all the country stops for an afternoon chai. we participate in the ritual as well in our office and use the 30 min to tell of recent trips, play speed scrabble, or sit in the sun. chai has always been one of my favorites on the coffee shop menus [and to think i didn’t even know it was from india]. even after a year of it most every day, it will continue to remain a favorite; though i have a feeling starbuck’s version won’t be quite the same. i used to think it tasted like christmas. now to me, it will always be india…

chai garam. chai garam.
a deep, disembodied voice echoes fro the railway platform, calling to the train’s sleepy passenger. roused from a miserable attempt at sleep, the weary traveler quickly withdraws a single rupee from his wallet and eagerly thrusts it through the bars of the compartment’s open window. soon he holds a red clay cup, brimming with steaming liquid. like a parched wanderer in the desert, he brings it to his lips. bliss. loved by some, hated by others, chai - the indian tea consumed by the masses as well as the maharajahs - is one of the constants on this subcontinent.

if you’re like most westerners, when you think of tea you probably picture an elegant porcelain pot with some exquisitely aromatic assam or derjeeling leaves steeping inside. nearby stand milk and sugar, ready to serve if called upon. a decidedly british sort of arrangement. to no great surprise, considering the long years of the raj, this setup can be found all over india, but only in first-class waiting rooms, western-style restaurants, and starred hotels. if this is what you want, be sure to order ‘tray tea.’ alas, it won’t always be available. on the other hand, maybe you’re visualizing something a bit more utilitarian. but the tea bag has failed to penetrate very deeply into india culture.

okay, you’re wondering: what is chai? what are its magical ingredients? what special alchemy produces it? pull up a chair in one of my favorite chai stands and watch the chai-wallah at work. squatting by a brazier of glowing coals, the maestro reaches for his favorite pot, a much-dented, fire-blackened thing made out of the cheapest metals possible. deftly he knocks out the remains of the last batch of chai, wipes out the pot with a dirty rag, and sets it on the brazier. he adds several cups of water [better not ask its source] and two ladles of whole milk. as the mixture begins to heat, the chai-wallah reaches for a large, red tin of brook bond red label, the best ctc tea money can buy [ctc tea is the name given to what’s left of the tea after the finest leaves have been sold for export. the letters stand for the crush-tear-cool process that these remains are subjected to]. into the pot go several generous pinches. now a critical step. out comes another tin, this one full of coarse crystals of partially refined sugar. in goes a spoonful. and another. and another. and another. you lose count. the mind boggles. with effortless grace, the maestro reaches for a bidi, a cigarette hand-rolled in a leafe of tobacco or the cheaper sall. now it is time to wait and have a smoke. there’s no hurrying this last, all-important stage: the cooking.

minutes pass. at last the bidi has burned down, and the chai is ready to be served. a serious young boy in stained pajamas steps forward: the sorcerer’s apprentice. he deferentially hands his master a mismatched cup and saucer. with practiced showmanship, the wallah flourishes a strainer and pours the tea. following the example of your fellow patrons, you pour the piping hot chai into the saucer and take a sip. a feeling of sublime well-being spreads slowly through body and soul.

the best chai stands, of course, are something more than a place to sit and relax. like any good coffeehouse in the western world, a chai stand is a social center. newspapers are read, politics debated. friendly patrons, observing that you are a foreigner, may draw you into conversation, inquiring into the country of your origin, the nature of your journey, the frequency of your sex life. give them an enigmatic smile and continue sipping. some of india’s more upscale chai stands like to infuse their brew with cardamom or other indigenous spices. ginger, cloves, cinnamon, nutmeg, and black pepper are all common choices. the cardamom, some say, is best when chewed fresh by the chai wallah, then spit into the pot. i’ve never witnessed this myself, but wisdom might dictate keeping a close eye on the maestro while he is brewing your tea.

jarrold steward. chai! chai! chai! travelers’ tales: india. san francisco: 2004.

life. by puja

life is so beautiful,
when we see it like a mirror.
life is like a moving train,
life is like the showering rain,
life is a gift, accept it.
life is a promise, fulfill it.
life is a lovely dream,
life is a soft gentle stream.
life is a miracle of the Lrd,
life is a gift of Gd.
life is a collection of joy and sorrow.
but life is not a thing that we can borrow.

i think if i could describe her in one word, i would choose glowing. her features soft and the shape of her face round, she carries a gentle light in her eyes. she might tell you she’s far from confident, but when you’re in her presence there is ease in conversation and comfort in the silence. i met puja at community of nations chrch while living in mussoorie, india. i knew her voice long before i knew her story as she was one of the hindi translators in our service. her words, articulate and clear, told me of her journey to the Truth one afternoon in the spring.

i see an evidence of an independence in her spirit as we sit on the warm pavement. she tells me growing up, she wasn’t a ‘girly’ kind of girl like most are expected to be. when others are more concerned with knitting and cooking, she’d be found playing cricket with the boys. if given a choice, she’d choose the game field over the market place any day. though still in love with the outdoors, she’s put away her pig tails and play clothes; she’s a woman now. i often admire her salwar kamiz and the vibrancy of the colors she uses to cover herself. she loves to cook, often experimenting in the kitchen. ‘when i’m cooking, i worship Gd,’ a statement she never would have made two years ago. a lot of things are different now.

growing up, puja spent little time with her parents, who traveled for the military, living instead with her grandparents. in hindi, her name means ‘an act worship’ and is a word uttered billions of times a day around this hindu world. in a country where hundreds of thousands of gods exist she had no problem accepting J-sus as one of them, ‘why not? another one could always help.’ however, when she was sixteen, she saw this J-sus was far different from the rest.

if you’ve ever wondered if there is a spiritual battle out there, if you’ve ever questioned the forces of the demonic, just talk to puja. you see, this sweet, innocent and gentle indian was once overcome and controlled by something else beyond the physical world. plagued with constant fear, she would burst into fits of rage, throwing things and every member of her body around while shaking uncontrollably. she couldn’t talk in these moments, she couldn’t express what was within. she shows me her arms and the places where there should be scars from her attempt to end the suffering. she’ll tell you now she’s thankful she wasn’t successful, ‘suicide is never an option.’

her little sister had begun attending a chrn chrch with a friend and for reasons she can’t explain, she joined them one week, ‘it was a holy place. the demon within me couldn’t stay in that holy place.’ after much pr’yer and petition the strongholds were loosened and she began to experience freedom unlike she had never known before. though the bondage was broken, change has not been an overnight process. But it has been deep. she has surrendered every corner of her heart to a Gd who doesn’t control His followers by fear, but offers love unconditionally and provides life when only death can be found.

her family believes in ‘her’ Gd, they’ve seen the change. she and her sister are still the only ones who trust, but she cannot deny the power of pryer. ‘someday,’ she says with soft confidence. she’s learned to write poetry and express what used to be hidden through drawing. another year of school and she’ll begin pursuing training in computers and communication; it’s the responsible thing to do. but her heart’s desire?
‘i want to continue translating, learn to preach, and pr healing for others. i
want to tell my story because it glorifies Gd.‘

mussoorie the queen. by puja
mussoorie is a queen of the mountains, said his own story.
higher, higher mountains,
deeper, deeper secrets,
if we saw them like the mother of nature.
all religious people live here together,
id, diwali and christmas are celebrated together.
if we said, ‘here are so many colors in the house of the queen.
come and see company, kempty and gunhill.
when snow falls in the mountains, the view looks so beautiful,
we feel so cold but our heart wants to see the view.’
these are the small stories of this queen.
not receiving but giving to people is her identity.
so we say, mussoorie is the queen of the mountains,
mussoorie is the queen of the mountains.

so two weeks from today, i’m leaving mussoorie…i’m leaving mussoorie…i’m really leaving. i don’t think it quite sinks in. it’s kind of like when i tried to tell myself i was really coming to india and it wasn’t until i got here that i believed it…hmm…sometimes i still don’t believe it… where was i? oh yes. i’m leaving mussoorie and as you can tell, i’m having a hard time sorting my thoughts, my emotions, my heart. with no premeditated plan for this post, i just start writing. perhaps typing will slow down my thoughts and help them find some kind of logical manifestation. the process of writing is a beautiful thing…the words find the struggle…the sentences answer the questions… here we go.

this place has been good to me; i’ve found comfort between its peaks. it’s been patient, letting me learn at my own, stubborn pace. i remember my first day out on the trails…i had no idea how i was going to get home. last week, i navigated them without getting lost once. that was a big deal. i’ve seen the seasons change from the electric green of monsoon, into the a period affectionately called ‘the most beautiful time of the year’ [aka october] and into the constant state of cold in the winter. we’re now in ’sprall’…a spring, summer, fall time. it’s weird. i miss spring. monsoon is around the corner, and i’m glad i’ll miss the mold!

the hillside community here is transient…constantly coming and going. but while i was here, they welcomed and accepted me. there isn’t history to our relationship, but there is depth of understanding and common purpose. that seems to be enough. for a season, we walked this path together, enduring all of life’s ups and downs. i’ve had a lot of ‘lasts’ with them recently…i haven’t been home before 10pm in the last week and for a girl who’s usually in bed by this time, that’s quite a social life. people take goodbyes [and hello’s] in stride because they’ve had so many. sometimes its easy to wonder if you’ll be missed or remembered. but i’ll remember them.

this strange house became home. i got used to the 3″ foam mattress and now prefer the simplicity of a bucket bath. i learned to rest and enjoy the silence. my list of ‘titles read’ has grown to almost 20 and the ‘ones to read’ has exponentially multiplied. i like plants more and cars less. a different pace of life here, a 40-hour work week now seems busy. living and working in the same building is a beautiful thing. i could get used to this. i wake at 6 am, though i don’t have to begin work on the other side of the wall until 8:30. the reason for the earliness? i like mornings; i really like mornings. i want to be up to enjoy them.

i have more confidence now than when i arrived. perhaps removing myself from the things i usually let define me has allowed me to let them go and not just ignore them…i like the freedom this living brings…you should try it. there’s less desire to conform to a standard set for me but a greater hunger to step into the unique one created for me. i think i’m more me than i was before and i’m pretty sure that is a good thing.

so three weeks from today, i’ll step back into a world that has always been familiar, the only thing i had ever known. i didn’t learn the way of the ocean until i was twenty…five years later i’ve set my feet in more major bodies of water than i can count. all of my memories growing up are set in the plains of kansas, now my mind also holds experiences from living on three continents. it’s hard to think of adjusting back to a place i came from, a culture that brought me up. will i fit the same way i did before? will i forget how i lived here? what i saw? who they are? why i came?

is there a way to turn the questions off? or at least delay them for a few weeks? argh. the curse of the ever-processing mind…three volumes full now tell this indian story. in architecture school, we learn, it’s all about process…the end result isn’t as important as the process of getting there. i think life is the same way. it’s less about the finish line, the climax, the apex of what you accomplish on earth and more about the race you run while you’re here. but oh, sometimes it can be exhausting.

see photos from my last days here.

i used to think idols were something of the past and animal sacrifices were only found in the old testament.

i didn’t think it was humanly possible for one million people to live in one square mile or that a country’s average income could be 0.7% of my own.

i used to think colorado’s rocky mountains were pretty big.

i only thought the water/power went out during storms, not because there wasn’t enough.

i used to think education and sanitation were a given, not a luxury

i once thought freedom was a right, not a gift.

i didn’t think 48hr train rides were even possible, much less that i would take one.

i used to think culture shock was a linear experience you eventually got over, not a cyclical process that rarely ends.

i thought a ten foot wide road could only hold traffic in one direction and monkeys were only found in cages.

i used to think architecture was just something i did.

i didn’t think miracles were very common anymore.

i used to think poverty was the people i served biscuits and gravy to on sunday mornings and the homeless were the people sitting by the steps at the library.

i thought hinduism was just another religion, not a way of life for one billion people.

i used to think chrch was something you went to, not something you are.

i used to think a lot of things…and then i lived in india.

…but you can’t take the india out of the girl!

one of the most unique parts about hiking through india is not the 22,000+ high peaks or the expansive view of the himalayan mountain range, but the path which takes you through, not around, the villages. completely surrounded by trees and not a soul in sight one moment and then the next you’ll be walking through someone’s porch and by their front door in order to continue on your journey. my trek to harkidun took us through remote villages and into a more secluded part of india than i have experienced yet.

no need for money here, the bartering system is still sufficient. running water is a stream outside the village; i’d have a hard time explaining the concept of a faucet. they live on the land and off of it; the crops they harvest are the food they eat, the sheep they herd is the wool they wear. no cement houses of the city, the land periodically provides them with fallen pines for their walls, the river with stones for their floors. it’s the only life most have ever known and it’s enough.

in this belt of the garwalh district where i walk, the matriarchs rule the people. you’ll know the woman in charge not only by the way she looks you up and down [as well as restricting you from taking her photo], but by the six inch nose ring she proudly carries upon her face. yea, you don’t mess with her. some have up to five husbands and are born with the freedom to come and go as they please. in a world where the rest of your gender is abused and suppressed, i wonder if they understand this paradox of their remote society. they look far older than their years would tell, that is, if they knew their birthday or the number of years which they have since passed. village life is not easy and they wear their hardships between the wrinkles on their face.

the village children are always my favorite and i ready my camera upon the approach of the small township. though you have no idea of the others who have come before you, they make you feel as if you are an event they have been waiting for. their clothes are tattered and unlike their elders, holes are left unrepaired. they make toys from the tops of bottles and spend their days herding the livestock out to graze. we saw a school for the 8 local villages, holding only a class of 20, most of them faithfully attending the lessons of the land. their little noses run without attention and their fingers are already rough and stained from their work in the field; childhood is not a part of their vocabulary.

all we pass, the villagers are eager to confirm our destination and point us in the right direction. they stop their work to watch us trudge by and i’m sure their observations of us carried the conversation for the next few hours. some are repairing water pipes, others sifting dinner’s rice. many men sit around drinking chai, and the older women knitting in patches of sunlight. some ask us for medical supplies [we were smart ones and left the first aid kit at home] and i hand out the tylenol with discernment as most are just looking for a cure-all pill. we ask if we can pr for them, knowing this seemingly intangible medicine will do far more than we ever could; this year i’ve seen more power in the Spirit than there ever will be in my first aid kit. in those beautiful, dark places, i hope we walked as lights.

what would it be like to make home here? what if i just set up shop between these heavy timber houses and become one of the locals? living here i could learn so much…the way of the land, a simplicity of life, how to tell the time by the sun, the value of hard work, the art of conversation…i labor up the hill as they pass me by with heavier loads than my ergonomic pack, still clothed in winter’s wool. i readjust my pig tails for photos and roll up the sleeves of my t-shirt in attempts to avoid tan lines. i’m about to complain of the blisters on my toes and bruises on my hips when i stop myself…oh, so much i have to learn.

they call it the valley of the gods and i can understand why. if i were a god, i would probably hang out in this valley too. requiring two days of hiking from the nearest highway [ie. a one lane road with a speed limit of 20km, occasional crossing of goat herds, the always expected wandering cows, and frequent potholes you would swear might swallow the front of your car] harkidun is remote and seemingly undisturbed. glaciers confidently cut into the blue of the sky reaching their fingers to heights i cannot begin to fathom. the snow covered peaks allow the pines to partially occupy their white robes, both seeming to understand the limits of the roots; the trees dare not to venture further. together, they gently ease into the valley below, stretched along an expansive base. from up here where i gaze, the river below appears to be a burbling brook, stones tossed and scattered between its edges. but my two preceding days of hiking along this raging water tells me it’s anything but. the rushing sound i hear from my seat hundreds of feet above reminds me the pebbles i see are in fact giant boulders and the this seemingly gentle stream is doing much more than babbling.

on our journey here, we passed village after village, each dwindling in population size and growing in meal cost. harkidun was the last station listed on our itinerary and still closed for the winter. only a fool would try to face a brutal season in the midst of these peaks…perhaps another reason why the gods like it. i don’t think they mind the cold so much. i find myself sitting among abandoned guest houses and empty food supply stores. [oh, what i wouldn’t give for a hot parantha] in a few weeks, the hiking time in the valley will be prime and the trails carrying backpackers from all corners of the globe. it’s nice to be ahead of the curve, though, to beat the ‘crowd,’ to hang out with my God in the valley before they bring the rest of theirs.

sometimes i wonder…why such beauty if only a handful to enjoy it? why tuck such an incredible view into a remote footprint? perhaps it really is the valley of God. maybe He really does find solace among these majestic peaks. i mean, if mankind paved His paradise, i wouldn’t think Him selfish to keep a few places to Himself.