The Power of Mothers and the Cultural Expectations of Women

Hello from Kolkata at the end of my third full week! Gah! I miss y'all!

My time has been filled with answered prayers and experiences that have exceeded all my expectations. Thank you for your support and prayers. Even though things are going wonderfully, it is such a comfort to know that you are with me in thought and prayer.

My research is going excellently and I now have around 14 hours of interviews with around 20 women. This past week I have had the added treat of having my dissertation advisor, Dr. Rebecca Manring, staying in Kolkata just two doors down from me.  We have been able to eat meals together here at the Mission and it has afforded us a closeness that I am very thankful for. It has been such a treat to have her here helping me with research and answering logistical questions, and I feel very much taken care of.  She has been yet another angel put in my path while I am here.  On Thursday, I had the added treat of spending the day with her as we tried (unsuccessfully) to procure a manuscript from a nearby ashram, and then spent the afternoon at Hena’s aunt’s home eating insanely delicious vegetarian food. 

As we sat, Hena and Munuphishi (Hena’s aunt--I’ll tell you more about her in a second) discussed my research. They told Rebecca that they thought my research was important because women rarely talk about the rituals they do every day at home, even though it is a very important part of their lives, because it has simply been accepted as expected ‘women’s work’. I can’t tell you what an incredible gift their words were, and still are. I have hoped for my entire graduate career that I could do some kind of research that actually benefited the people that I worked with—research that wasn’t a totally extractive enterprise.  Because the thing is that all research ‘of Others’ has an extractive facet, or at least the possibility of being extractive. I mean, I get to fly over here, with a grant equal to more than many Kolkatans make in a third of the year (according to the Telegraph, the annual median home income in Kolkata in 2008 was roughly $5,000), enter into women’s homes, ask them personal questions, return home, and use what they told me to complete my graduate career, and produce research that leads to my personal professional success. In really black and white terms, that is what is happening when I study folks living here. In the research I produce, I can try as best as possible to clarify their own voices and to give them the power to confirm or deny my research conclusions, but there is always an extractive side to my research. 

What a joy to hear that, for at least these two women, they are glad I am here doing what I am doing.  While I cannot claim to “speak for” these women, as whatever I present will be incomplete and interpreted through my own perspective, and I’m going to get some stuff wrong, still they see value in the work I am doing. I mean, I couldn’t possibly have imagined a more enriching moment--such a gift, and, honestly, a relief.  And I got to share this moment with my advisor!

But, honestly, the best part of my research has been the relationships I have been able to develop with a few of the women, and the way they have taught me to more fully embody hospitality, love and service. I will be wrapping up my interviews in the coming week, and spend the last week sifting through the data for some possible preliminary conclusions. I want to talk just a bit about some of these possible research conclusions because it relates to this post’s primary topic, which I write in honor of my mom’s (ahem) 29^th birthday (on the 29^th): The tireless, loving, unrecognized work of mothers more specifically, and women more generally.  

Now at the beginning, I will admit that this is a gendered and limiting discussion. Of course, men, fathers, can, and do, tirelessly and thanklessly love, work and care for their families (my father and brother and community mate, Will, do this magnificently). And I could write a similar post about parenthood more generally, being the hardest and most thankless and important job that we somehow, by the grace of God, manage to do. And, of course, one does not have to give birth to a child or be the primary caretaker of a child do be a mother/parent.  But because so many of my discussions in Kolkata have been about the work that is assigned to women historically and culturally my post is a little narrow in its focus, so bear with me.

I have interviewed women from a variety of households—widowed, married, unmarried, with children and without—about their families, the daily worship they offer in their home shrines, and daily work that it takes for them to do both.  The home shrine, or thakur, was, historically, a shrine that each household had, often in a separate room, where one could offer worship throughout the day. 

First, a little background and a short lesson about Hindu belief (I can’t help it—I’m a teacher): Hindu belief understands the embodiments of divinity in a shrine (i.e. statues and pictures) to literally embody the divine. This is not to say that they believe that all of divinity is contained in that statue, or that it is the statue’s material itself that is divine. That would, in fact, be idol worship, and that is what the British and early missionaries accused Hindus of doing. But this is a misunderstanding.  Instead, Hindus believe that out of love for humans and a desire to have relationship with humans, the divine makes itself present in those limited forms, consecrated as temporary embodiments. So, a Hindu may be gifted a statue of, say, Krishna, and she or he would have that statue ritually established as an embodiment of the divine and, in doing so, the power and presence of the divine would enter that statue and reside there. But the divine is still present outside of that statue, and many (though not all) Hindus would claim that the divine is ultimately formless, but makes itself available in forms so that humans can connect with the divine and serve the divine like a family member or friend. Now, at public temples, only men of a certain caste are allowed to oversee worship and care of the shrine and the forms of divinity within it. But in homes, it has historically been women who care for the shrine and its divinity. Many women expressed to me that they understand the divinity in their shrine to be like a family member. So worship often involves serving divinity like you might serve a family member: washing, dressing, feeding and showing love.

Although all family members may offer some form of puja (worship)—such as prayer, lighting a candle or incense, or chanting a devotional song, or simply offering a bow, it is the women, in particular the mothers of the home, who literally care for the shrine and its divinity.  Many women expressed that they loved their thakur and their time caring for it for two reasons: 1) it affords them a peaceful break from the labor of the family, and, 2) it offers them peace of mind concerning their family’s welfare when they give up their worries about the health and wellbeing of family members to God in their prayers. While things are certainly changing in Indian households, as in American households, the historical expectation has been that women would stay home, caring for the family, and men would go out and work. Their care for the thakur—essentially the care for the divine family and the continuation of the family’s spiritual traditions—was a part of this home work. Because things are changing, and many women work outside of the home (in fact, most of the women I talked to do work outside the home), they are having to find a way to manage all of these responsibilities on top of working all day (and often spending hours traveling to and from work).  The constant theme with these women when I ask them how they find time to do all of this has been, “You just do. We just find the time”. Hena has said it is a trans-cultural phenomenon—women magically finding time.

This is what has been called the “second shift”, and I have seen so many of the women in my own American context, including my own mom, somehow manage to find time to love on and care for and discipline, and feed, and clean and put to bed and heal their children after they have been at work all day. I have seen my community mate, Colleen, do it and I have watched comfortably from my own bedroom window as she turned off the lights at 8 pm so she could sleep enough before the first  (and second and third) time her daughter woke up to feed, so that she could still have had some sleep so she could go to work the next day.

I have also watched the physical work that mothers’ bodies must go through to give life to their children; and I have seen how that is never forgotten by the body, so that when I am sick or far away, I think my mom’s body literally aches with me and for me. And I have seen this ache in action—I’ve seen the mama bear claws come out in my defense if someone hurt me or if I was in trouble. My mom even rescued me from a travel abroad trip gone awry in Mexico when I was a sophomore in college---yeah, like flew to Mexico, had a throw down with the study-abroad program, and brought me home on a plane. (Again, I know all parents feel this ache regardless of bodily sex or whether you gave birth to your child, and I know my dad would similarly help, but just bear with me for the sake of thematic consistency, ok?).  When many mammals, like bears or whales, give birth to their babies, they will go for months living off their own body fat, feeding their babies nutrient-rich milk and not feeding themselves so they don’t have to leave their babies until they are old enough to leave the safety of their nursery grounds. Sometimes, when I think about everything involved in motherhood—the emotional, physical and psychological labor, and the incredible depth of love—I am totally overwhelmed and awed.  I wonder how anyone does it. I am reminded of what Barak Obama said about parenthood: the moment you become a parent, your heart, totally vulnerable and ready to be hurt, moves outside of yourself to that child you parent.

Hmmm, can you tell that TJ and I have been thinking about parenthood recently? And can you tell that I’ve been thinking about my mom a lot before her (ahem) 29^th birthday? Yeah, there might be some personal catharsis in this post. Sorry.

I also write on this topic because my work here could not have been possible without the women who have “mothered” me—guiding me, calling me on the phone to make sure I got home ok and that my headache is gone, feeding me delicious foods, connecting me with wonderful families. There is Hena, of course, and certainly Rebecca (who two people in the dining hall here have mistaken as my mother). Without them, I couldn’t have gotten my visa, my hotel room, any of my interviews, or basically any of the logistics necessary for my work. And then there is Munuphishi—definitely the source of my motherly comfort here.

Munuphishi is Hena’s aunt, newly widowed in January by her husband of 55 (!) years. She never had children because she wanted to devote her life to the service and care of others, in particular her nieces who lost their family early on in life.  She also helped Hena start the Society for the Visually Handicapped. She is, I think, understandably lonely these days, and so she has given me invitations to her home on many occasions and she has gone with me on many of my interviews. She calls me throughout the week just to make sure I am doing ok, and she has had me over to her home to feed me at least once a week since I have gotten here. A few days ago, we spent the whole day together in her home. We chatted in the morning, she made me tea, we chatted more, she made me lunch, we took long naps next to each other on her living room sofas, she made me more tea, we looked at a photo album of her family, and then she took me on yet another interview. It was literally like going to a grandmother’s home and being loved on all day.  When you are homesick like I admittedly have been as of late, days like this are so valuable. They build a kind of home in a foreign space, bringing you the kind of peace and rest you only get with family. Yesterday, she called me just to say that I am welcome at her home any time, so I will definitely be spending time there before I go home.  Thank God for mothers of all kinds! And then there is wonderful Sandhya, my adoptive mom from last summer. I have actually been so busy, that we have not seen each other yet, but luckily I have time this coming week to visit her, which I plan to do a few times.

I am realizing that this post may be reifying some very normative ideas, suggesting that women are somehow specially endowed with powers to love, nurture, and protect. I don’t think that. The love and the nourishment of parenthood knows no boundary of sex or gender. However, I will say that our cultures expect a lot of women and the way they manage, often with incredible grace, to fill the multiple roles expected of them and spread love, is truly mind-blowing. AND I will say that without the women who have filled in as my mothers here, without my own mother’s encouragement and prayers, without the inspiring strength of my working mom and my working mom friends, this trip would have been very difficult for me.  So to all you women, legally or biologically mothers or not, filling a billion roles expected of you by our cultures, raising life, spreading love, feeding your families, enriching your communities, balancing, working, and keeping your spiritual lives ablaze—thank you. Your strength, when so much is expected of you is astounding. Don’t forget it. And thank you to moms of all kinds.

And a special thank you and happy birthday to my own mom, Opal Andrews, whose (ahem) 29^th birthday I will not be able to celebrate until after my return home. I know it has not been easy for you to have your daughter half a world away, but you have handled it with grace and have given me such encouragement. I can only hope that when my kid, if I am so lucky one day to have one, does something annoyingly independent, that I can be as encouraging as you. Happy Birthday! Oh, you, who have been mother to countless kids in LISD or, along with my dad, to your childrens’ circle of friends, you make the world better.

And, finally, thank you to all of you who parent in any way. To parent is to embody the unconditional love of God, and, so, to be the hands and feet of Christ.

Your prayers for my health and safety are much appreciated. Please tell me how I may be in prayer for you.

Blessings,

ashlee

On Unfathomable Goodness and Learning to be "Adventurously Expectant"

“This resurrection life you received from God is not a timid, grave-tending life. It’s adventurously expectant, greeting God with a childlike ‘What’s next, Papa?”. God’s Spirit touches our spirits and confirms who we really are. We know how he is, and we know who we are: Father and children. And we know we are going to get what’s coming to us—an unbelievable inheritence! We go through exactly what Christ goes through. If we go through the hard times with him, then we’re certainly going to go through the good times with him!”

Romans 8:15-17

  

This week I update you from that confusing space between homesickness/comfortsickness/controlsickness and being fully present here. Locationally speaking, I am talking about the space between my protected room at the Ramakrishna Mission, and the intimately shared, love-filled spaces that dozens of Kolkatans have opened to me.  It is also the space between totally freaking out in your luxurious air-conditioned hotel room when your internet stops working, and realizing that you really don’t need much at all if you have community, basic shelter, and clean food and water.  It’s the space between doing your damnedest to make sure your world is sanitized and controlled, and saying a prayer and just eating that food that might make you sick because it was given out of love. It’s the space between wishing I was home, and enjoying where I am fully right now. It’s the space between me at my worst, and catching glimpses of what it might look like to better live the Kingdom. 

This is all coming out a little vague and bumbling, so, first, let me paint some pictures of my past week. Actually, I just paint my favorite picture.

Monday I took the bus to Hena’s office at the Society for the Visually Handicapped. She helped to found the SVH, a non-profit organization that primarily produces educational materials (i.e.audio books, Braille books) and programming for blind students. They work entirely off of private funding and grants. Many of the women and men that work with Hena are volunteers who travel by bus or train for hours daily to volunteer their services, and on multiple occasions, when they have heard that my project is to study Hindu religion, they have told me that the truest religion is to serve and love humanity. It is possible that this statement is one indebted to the incredibly influential Kolkatans Shri Ramakrishna, Vivekananda, and Mother Theresa but whatever the original source, their lives are guided by this beautiful belief. Hena founded the SVH over 30 years ago with two other family members, feeling called to the work after she worked for a blind scholar. She believes that if you work passionately for something that benefits others, God will provide. She has this totally uncanny ability to simultaneously exude warmth and love and a no-bullshitting authority. I thank God daily that my academic advisor connected me with this incredible woman who has taught me so much about service, hard work, faith and love, and without whom my research would have basically been impossible. I tell you all of this not only to illustrate what a blessing Hena has been, but also to illustrate the goodness of the people I get to visit with everyday.

(First, a side note/digression/soap box lecture you can feel free to ignore: Ramakrishna and Vivekananda both suggested that Hindu, Christian, and Muslim religious belief were guided by both their love of God and their emphasis on service to humanity and, in that way, persons of these faiths should discontinue their divisive thinking. This thought, Mother Theresa’s years of service here, and the beautifully inclusive nature of individual Hindu belief may also explain the presence of images of Christ hanging in many Hindu homes I have visited. My identity as a Christian has been shared in many of the conversations I have had with folks, and it is treated with great openness. Folks have tended to emphasize how both traditions share an emphasis on loving of others and God. I am continually amazed by the generosity of such an approach to my Christian identity.  When speaking of the history of Christianity in India, there is a good bit of darkness, especially here in Kolkata, which was for many years the capital of the British empire. The British argued that their colonial control of India was a civilizing mission supported by God, and for many generations approached Hindu thought as inherently backwards and in need of civilizing and ‘modernizing’ that only the British could do.  I won’t go too deeply into this, suffice to say that Kolkatans could be familiar with the figure of the Christian, non-Indian scholar approaching their lives and traditions with disdain, critique and an air of superiority, and it feels like an act of forgiveness each time my Christian identity is approached with acceptance. Ok, I’ll step off my soap box and get back to my picture painting….although I do highly recommend learning about the British colonial legacy in India as it still shapes cultural, political and religious life today.)

So, back to Monday: Hena had arranged for us to walk to the nearby home of dedicated volunteer to see his wife’s thakur (home shrine) and interview her about her daily rituals. This volunteer had been essential in helping the SVH to procure audio tapes years ago when the organization was producing educational materials on tape for students (they use MP3 players now). He was so dedicated that the SVH soon started looking for other work for him to do that they could pay him for (as he was in need of an income). He and his family live in a government housing facility just a few blocks from the SVH.  He and his wife welcomed us into their home with total enthusiasm and, as with every other home, humbling hospitality. Their home is very small, perhaps 300 square feet, with two small rooms and a tiny kitchen and bathroom. It is extremely clean and well-cared for, and both of them are very well-dressed and wearing very proud faces as we enter their space. The entry room, which doubles as a bedroom for many families, has as many Indian homes, a large, very hard bed that doubles as a seating area. His wife brought us into her bedroom, which consisted of another large bed, a small dresser and a beautifully cared-for shrine. We sat on the floor in front of the shrine and talked. As we talked a neighbor came by, and listened, and her daughter and husband sat on the bed listening politely while she showed me her shrine and spoke candidly with me for around an hour. After our discussion, she, of course, offered us tea and biscuits and we all gathered on the bed in the entry room and chatted about their family and the hard work that the husband had done for the SVH. Many Indian homes do not have glass windows, but open windows with iron gates from which they hang drying laundry and perhaps a curtain. The Indian breeze blew into the room and as we sat and talked I was struck by the deep goodness of the people I was spending time with.  The husband offered to ask his neighbors if they would let me see their shrine room and speak with them—such a generous and kind offer to me, an invader. In this housing complex, everyone seems to keep their doors open and people seemed to flow in and out of one another’s homes. We flowed into their next-door neighbor’s home, an older woman, widowed, and living with her daughter and son in law. She had given them the larger room and normally slept in the room in the entry of the home, where we were currently gathered to talk.  As we chatted, the neighbors came by and listened; we flowed to another home, taking the neighbors with us, and we all crammed into the third home admiring the shrine and speaking with the woman about her no-nonsense, loving approach to daily care of God. She had prepared her shrine for our viewing, lighting a candle, incense and twinkling lights, and she looked so proud to share it. After we talked, the second older neighbor invited us all back to her house and she made tea (again). So we all crammed into her entry room (which is also her bedroom), drinking the tea she made for all of us and talking about traffic in Kolkata, and the nearby temples, the best way to get from one temple to another, and the best thing for an upset stomach,-- just sharing life. As I sat in that room filled with neighbors all drinking tea, looking after one another’s kids, I was absolutely confident that this was a piece of the Kingdom. 

I live in an intentional community and I love it. We make lots of intentional decisions to be a part of each others’ lives and to, when time and work allow, be with one another, in service, communion, and prayer. Others in the community (ahem, Tim and Carrie) are way better at this than me, making time to take care of Noel at least once a week. But we have to be intentional about our community. I have to work to make time for my community; I have to work to be hospitable; I have to work to find time (and its rare) to spend with Noel. But these folks are community; they seem to live and breathe it in a way that is unfamiliar to me. I don’t think there was some intentional decision to be made at some tenant meeting about how to do life as a community. Its more likely that they just lived right next to someone, because that’s what the housing situation allowed, and they made one another a part of each other’s lives, sharing tea and time and food and space as needed, because that is how you do it. But, they seem to thrive as they live in this way.

I do not mean to make the overly rehearsed suggestion that Indian culture is just inherently more communal and American is more individual—although I do think there is some truth to it. And I definitely do not want to romanticize the difficulty, which I did not see, but which is likely there, that accompanies living in the kind of economic situation that means one living in a government sponsored housing development. I’m sure daily life can be quite difficult—finding money for food, for a child’s education, for medicine if one gets sick. But nothing about what I saw was pity educing.  The families I met were strong, exceptionally hardworking (and I mean like working from 6am to 11pm kind of hard work), proud of what they had produced, and very happy to share what they had earned with others. I mean, they are volunteering for the SVH! Moreover, they have an authentic joy that was palpable as they shared space and time with one another.  It didn’t matter what they were doing. As soon as someone came by, they dropped what they were doing, made some tea and made time for one another.

I guess what I’m saying is that they’ve got their priorities right, far better than mine. What I am saying is that I met some of the best people I have ever had the opportunity to meet.

Ultimately, what I am sharing with you is that you cannot fathom the goodness that is hidden in homes throughout the world. I would never have had the opportunity to be in that space, to share in that goodness, if it hadn’t been for Hena, and for this kind gentleman’s willingness to open his home. But I got that opportunity, and it was eye-opening. I feel like I have won some kind of ultimate “travel package” where I get to meet the best human beings just doing life in their homes. I am only a visitor. I cannot pretend to belong in these homes, although they make me feel more than welcome to do so. I do not bless them the way they bless me, so the relationship is uneven, making it feel like I am just some tourist that takes from the place.  But it is such a privilege, such an honor to witness such goodness, to step into a home that I would otherwise never have stepped into and meet people that I would on any other day never have met, and to just sit in their rooms and share conversation and, for just a few seconds, life, with them, is truly one of the greatest gifts I have ever received. And those visits will continue to bless me because they will remind me of a better way to live, and they will remind me that the goodness of people is bigger than I can fathom. 

I am telling you that while, yes, we all encounter other humans when they are at their worst, and while we can be that human at their worst with others, hidden in homes you have never been in, amongst people you will probably never meet, in every corner of the world is a goodness beyond measure. When I question the goodness of humanity, or its future, I will remind myself that it is there. It is everywhere. It was in those homes, and it is in others, in unique and miraculous ways. There is goodness, yall, and it is beyond my comprehension the depth and breadth of that goodness.

So you may be asking yourself, if you can be in the midst of such goodness, where’s the conflict? Why want to be anywhere else? Good question. The short answer is that from my totally clean and safe room, I can feel like I am totally protected and in control. Outside of this room, lots of things are out of my control and lots of things can happen, some of which I might need protection against. Of course, some of the things “that could happen” include the lovely, unforeseen conversations I have had in good people’s homes. But it’s the threat of everything else that keeps me, some mornings, feeling like I just want to stay in bed, or counting down the days until I get home.

Now some of this feeling, and this counting down of days is just me missing all of you, missing my family, my church and my community, and the way that a blue sky looks in Bloomington (its somehow bluer than it is here), the way the morning coffee Nate procures at the Farmer’s Market tastes, or the way it feels to ride a bike down a b-town street, and, especially, missing the hugs and cuddles and every day life with my dream of a husband. I am going to feel that. Its good that a feel that. It’s a reminder of the gifts that absolutely permeate my life. Who wouldn’t feel that?

And a lot of these feelings are feelings we, living in the middle class first world, are taught to feel about “Other” places. When the news reports on South Asia, it reports on rapes, on poverty, on bribes and corruption, on terrorism, on diseases, on the abuse of women. It doesn’t do pieces on the people I have met or on the way Bengali sweets taste, or the delight of sharing tea with another person, or the beauty of a Hindu festival. We have been trained to fear South Asia, to think it is in need of more saving than us, and that it is also somehow beyond saving. That’s why when I tell someone I am going to India, most often they say, “Stay safe”, not “Oh, what an opportunity!”.  But I also cannot say I wouldn’t say the same thing. We have been taught to think the worst of this place. And, yeah, the water can make me hella sick and, yes, the police aren’t trustworthy, and, yes, I don’t like being out at night (something that some Americans could probably say of their own cities). But, as I hope my stories have illustrated, this place is so, so much more than that.

The problem is that I let these feelings totally pull me out of this place and time. I let my homesickness, or the unknown, new, and uncontrollable become, in my mind, something to be feared and avoided.  I wrote that last time I was here, after taking an unintended bath in flood waters, that I had realized that whether I am in India or in my familiar Bloomington, I’m not really in control. I am probably in control of more things in Bloomington infrastructurally, linguistically, and culturally speaking, and, to be honest, there are some new threats to health and safety here. But the big stuff—you, know, living or dying—is out of my control no matter where I am. Life is not in my control. That is a lesson that takes constant relearning. India just more poignantly has provided the reminder because it is so unfamiliar. That is one of the gifts of being here. Its also what sometimes sucks about being here. It feels better to live in the ignorance of control.

So some mornings here as I prepare to go out I get these uncomfortable twinges in my stomach and I feel overcome with anxiety for a few moments and pray the same prayer for health and safety that has marked each of my trips to South Asia. Then, I try to remember the verse in Romans: “This resurrection life you received from God is not a timid, grave-tending life. It’s adventurously expectant, greeting God with a childlike ‘What’s next, Papa?”.  There’s a lot in that verse, and it has new meanings with each day’s experience. It reminds me to trust in a loving, good God who turns all things to something good; it reminds me to act courageously and strive to serve selflessly (neither of which I do effectively). But more than anything on this trip, it reminds me of Colleen Rose who, one night during one of our small group meetings said something that has helped me step outside the door and (in my good moments) embrace what is in front of me. We were talking about a friend who has been considering adoption. We were discussing all the issues this person would have to negotiate if they adopted: how to integrate an adopted child into their existing family of three; how to be a working mom of two; how to negotiate the application process; how to somehow make enough money to care for two children and still have time to care for them yourself. Then Colleen said, “Well, what the hell is life for if it isn’t for adopting someone who needs a home?”  She said it casually because she meant it, and because it is filled with truth. What is life for if it isn’t for doing some honestly crazy and hard shit out of love?

Now I’m not really doing anything hard. I am not serving anyone or doing anything selfless at all. I am doing things that feel hard for me because of my own neuroses, so that it is something, but I am not really helping anyone, beyond listening to them. Instead, I am being helped. Still, it can feel anxiety producing. And still I miss my many beloveds in the States. So when I get caught up in counting days (which is, like, every 6 hours or so) or worrying about whatever random thing I have decided to worry about, I just ask myself, “What else is life for than going to India and meeting incredible people, than seeing the face of God in the face of strangers as I drink tea in their living room?”.

Underscoring all of this is a call for me to have a deep faith in God’s unfathomable faithfulness and goodness; to have trust in what he will do with me and for me and others here and throughout my life, and to, in that trust, have a joyful openness and enjoyment of life here and now. I do not expect to figure out how to do this while I am here. As Ann Voskamp suggests in her book One Thousand Gifts, such a present-ness, and openness to living fully and joyfully in your here and now, out of trust in God’s goodness, is a discipline that takes constant work. But I think I am getting good practice here. And as I practice, and fail, I am getting the most incredible experience to meet God’s people and experience a totally different world as loved and filled by God as my own little Bloomington. So that is my current struggle—embrace this place here and now. Be here with Him.

That’s a lot of rambling for now. I ask for your prayers for my continued health and safety, as well as for your prayers of thanks and blessing for Hena and all of the people I have met. Please let me know how I may be in prayer for you. Thank you for your support, prayers and love. They keep me stepping out of the door each day.

Blessings,

ashlee

(Note: the confidentiality clause of my research means that I cannot share the names of the people I am interviewing, which is why I am not addressing people by their names)

Humbling Devotion and Hospitality...and food, so much food!

Week one. Where do I start? So much goodness….

Let me start with some little snapshots—what my day looks like and what I get to see, do, and eat while I am here.

The work of my day consists of taking notes from the previous day, riding on a very long bus ride to my research assistant’s office, a ride that gives me the opportunity to see Kolkata and sweat enough to make up for my sugar intake, visiting with her co-workers who have graciously agreed to be interviewed for my project, then going to one of their homes to interview them and their families about their home worship, observing the evening worship performed by the women of the household, and then riding a very long bus ride home, after which I take a very needed and enjoyed shower, eat, and collapse. It is very fulfilling and exciting because I spend most of the day actually kind of doing a thing I have prepared five years to do, and engaging with the most incredible women in a complex city.

It is extremely gratifying work, but also totally exhausting. My interviews are only about 2 hours long, but it is pretty mentally draining to try to translate and speak Bangla for that entire time. The bus rides are humbling. I do enjoy them when I can get a seat by the window. I can watch the activities of people and take in all the little images that make Kolkata what it is: food stalls and people standing and eating rice and dal and fried goodies in the middle of their lunch break; the very particular brickwork of Kolkatan sidewalks; Kwality Walls ice cream stands; people on bikes and motorcycles expertly navigating around the giant buses; sidewalk bazaars selling fruit and veggies; different neighborhoods, each with their own particular kind of bazaar, sometimes for saris, sometimes for plastic goods, sometimes for auto parts; people dodging puddles and hailing cabs; uniformed school children being escorted by their mothers; the Kolkatan police in their white spaceman uniforms; the bus helper helping children on and off the bus and yelling at men when they sit in the women’s only section; that same Indian dog that you find throughout the city; goats, cows, and monkeys meandering through the street; business men dressed to the nines eating and gossiping at the tea stand; and ladies dressed in beautiful saris with their hands full of shopping bags; and every Bengali always has their cell phone and umbrella in their hand. It’s a rare opportunity to just get to view this out my window.

But if you don’t get a seat, the bus ride, for lack of a positive outlook, sucks. Its hot, it takes anywhere from an hour and a half to two hours to get to the part of town I work in, and the traffic is basically insane. That bus ride twice a day for the whole week had definitely taken its toll on me by Thursday night (after only 4 days of work in the field), and I was glad to have a break today. Of course, practically everyone else on the bus does that journey everyday because they have to. Humbling. Individual, air conditioned transportation is a privilege. (Yeah, you’re going to hear some privilege talk in this blog—deal with it).

The home interviews have been the greatest experience of the trip. I cannot believe the willingness with which these women have opened their homes and lives to me. And they act so excited to have me over. I arrive at Hena’s office and they run up and greet me saying, “You’re coming to my house today!”. I wish my Bangla were better so I could more fully express my gratitude. THAT is the hardest thing about not being fluent—I lack the ability to fully communicate the depth of my gratitude and the impact these women have made on me. For now, I just have to resort to thank yous (in English, since the Bangla equivalent is not appropriate) and “you make my heart happy”. To give you an idea of what happens in the interviews, I will share a snapshot of my first one.

I am sitting in the living room in front of their beautifully decorated and lovingly cared for shrine. They bring a light close to the shrine so we can more fully gaze upon it. We talk about worship, and eating, and God’s role in their life, and the peace that comes upon the women when they are with God, the fact that God is like a brother or a son, and that we are, in that very moment, spending time with God and, for that, making God happy. The mother explains that her knowledge of how to worship Gopal (a form of Krishna) is, indeed, a special skill, a special kind of power, that she gains more and more authority over the more she performs it. Then the father mentions that this is what makes us (Hindus and Christians is what he meant in this conversation) one—this presence with and love of God and our willingness to recognize God as the source of our gifts. That is why, he said, both Christians and Hindus recognize God as the source of “our daily bread”.

I don’t know how all this stuff works, but there has been some serious love and grace flowing between these folks and God and it was a privilege to see it and share in it. I’m not going to make universalist claims or try to explain away difference—difference is important. Hindu religious beliefs and practices should not be dissolved into some universalist or even Christian truth claims or practices. There are distinct differences between my own particular Christian religious beliefs and practices and the stories I tell, and their own, and it would be wrong for me to say “They are all the same”. To say so would deny the particularity of these women's own beliefs and practices. But I will say that these folks REALLY love God and the way they love God--like a literal part of the family that they honor and engage with in material and pragmatic ways every day--and the peace God gives to their certainly hectic and, in some ways downright difficult, lives, surely is something I will never forget; it gives me joy and challenges me to think about the extent to which I engage with, love and trust in God.

Now to another very important topic, and one that is integrally related to God: food. Oh my, the food has been so good, and such a material reminder of the goodness of life and the immense hospitality of Bengalis. Also, I promised Nate Delong that I would eat good food for him, so I have to share all of the foods I’ve been eating to prove I am keeping my promise.

 The Ramakrishna Institute of Culture serves us three really wonderful meals a day, and sometimes I have the opportunity to eat with other scholars here. This is a real gift when it happens because it can actually be quite lonely doing research on my own. I am used to sharing life with people who flutter in an out of my home throughout the day, and community mates I can see through my window and visit and share meals with, and a group of friends I know I will see each Monday at our community dinner, and I’ve come, very quickly, to re-realize the necessity of community and to miss my own. This is a topic that I am positive will recur throughout my posts. But, I digress…to the food!

Breakfast consists of strong tea, bananas, corn flakes, hot milk and fried balls of goodness called “vegetable cutlets” (vegetables and nuts rolled into balls, fried and serve with chili tomato sauce) and sometimes a really yummy dal with fried chapatis. Then at lunch and dinner they serve a total abundance of food. Meals always start with a delicious broth, then you have the main dish. So far, they have served the most delicious chicken curry, a Chinese inspired chicken dish with chilis and onions, a chicken cutlet with fried potatoes, a chicken stew with potatoes, carrots, tomatoes and, of course rice, and, on the best days, a mind-blowing collection of vegetarian dishes: spinach, potatoes, paneer curries, okra, and sometimes fish, always finished off with a whole delicious mango, a piece of sweet squash cooked in a spiced syrup, and yogurt. Every meal is a gift and a treat and I want to take a picture of them to share with you, but I stand out enough, so I’ll just hold them in my heart rather than being a total hipster and taking an instagram photo.

Then there is the absolutely humbling abundance of food that is given to me in every Bengali home.  I have been to three homes this week and in each home, I have been offered tea and food every time. And I’m not talking the tea and food I would probably offer guests, which is usually the stuff that doesn’t cost much and is low on prep time. I am talking the kind of hospitality that I think we are ultimately called to show: serving your very best joyfully. From what I can tell, every Bengali home always has a variety of sweets and treats, teas, sodas and bottled waters not to be consumed by the family so much as for guests who may come over. For example, yesterday, I went to a home and was lovingly served a plate absolutely overflowing with a variety of Bengali sweets* and even an omelets. This was given to me even though I invaded the space and then took up a woman’s time asking her questions about her forms of worship. In the other homes it was much the same story: Bengali sweets and tea, and, of course, prosad.

Prosad is the food that remains at the end of worship. During the daily worship that many Hindus perform, but especially in the forms of worship that I am studying –the daily worship that women do at the home shrine—food is offered to the divine. In many homes, all food that is cooked for the family is first offered to God, but in other homes, they will only offer particular foods during worship. Usually, they will offer fruits, sweets, some rice and, occasionally rice-based dishes.  The food is offered to God because God is recognized as a family member, the most respected and beloved family member who receives food first. God is believed to eat a portion of that food and then whatever remains is eaten by devotees as a substance that is healing and good for both the body and the mind. So, if there is prosad, it is offered to guests first, and when it is offered, you take it.  In fact, yesterday, one woman (I can’t share her name for privacy purposes of my study) literally fed me the rice and sandesh (a kind of sweet) with her hands. She told me that it was her belief that this would provide me good health and a clear mind. Every time I was offered food, I couldn’t help but think about how my own hospitality pales in comparison, not just because of the sheer gastronomic abundance, but the really genuine joy that you could see on people’s faces when they shared time and food, and especially prosad with you. And the crazy thing is that I am imposing on them. Im coming into their homes, taking their time, asking them questions about their intimate religious practices and beliefs, intruding on their worship, and after three hours they tell me, with total authenticity, that it was a joy to have me in their home.  I like having people over, hosting community dinner or having a community mate stop by, but I don’t shower them with food and bow down telling them that they have brought my heart joy. Usually I’m in the kitchen too quickly trying to clean dishes or sweep the floor.

But the hospitality I have been met with extends beyond the home or kitchen, although I have felt it most poignantly there. Everyday, when I walk into Hena’s office, I am greeted by the women I have been working with as if I am a long lost friend. They immediately compliment my clothes, ask how I am doing, inquire how I liked the family I spoke with the night before and then tell me how much that family enjoyed me being there. They offer me drinks, pull me into the bathroom to fix my hair and put a tip (the little decorative dot worn on the forehead) on my forehead, and then give me the prosad from their office shrine (usually a cookie and a piece of Tulsi, a kind of basil that is believed to be sacred). They individually tell me when they are leaving and tell me to have a good day and inquire after my health.  And they do all of this when I have walked into their office space and interrupted their time.

I have also had incredible kindness from strangers; I’ve had so many people take pity on me when I look lost or tired, offering me a seat on the bus, or helping me to find the right bus. This happened last year as well.  You hear stories of people taking advantage of white folks, because, why not, but I have had such incredible, undeserved kindness. Two instances on buses are especially poignant: I had a bus driver literally chase down another bus because he knew I was on the wrong bus and the other bus was the one I needed to be on!  I also had a bus driver drive me to another bus and ask them to wait for me to get on. This is ASTOUNDING. Buses don’t stop for people to get on or off, at least not for long, so the fact that on two separate occasions, I had bus drivers go out of their way to get me on the right bus, is really special, and totally undeserved. I  don’t even know if it would happen in Bloomington. So much grace, so much kindness and angels everywhere.

Honestly, I have seen nothing but the face and hands of God everywhere. As a Christ follower, I try to commit my life to compassionate care for others. It was in my wedding vows and my baptismal vows. But this trip has humbled me, and made me realize that more often than not, I am the one being helped. I am the one being served. I hope that in the coming weeks here, upon my return home and every day after, I can have the courage—taken from these acts of love and hospitality—to be the kind of servant I have met again and again here.

I have many more stories to tell, but I’ve written enough for now. I am going to Hena’s house to eat a lunch her Aunt has spent four days cooking (yes, more radical hospitality!). I can’t wait to tell you all about it. Please keep my health and safety in your prayers and share with me any way I may be in prayer for you.

Blessings,

ashlee

*A quick note about Bengali sweets: Bengali cuisine is probably best recognized for its incredible variety of deserts, or sweets (in Bangla : mishtie). These are usually bite-sized little bits of goodness made out of everything from milk, cheese, rice, wheat, sesame seeds, nuts, sugar and jaggary.  Besides fruit, this is the most common item offered to the divine in worship so they are found in shops throughout the city, and, like I said, in basically every Hindu Bengali cupboard.