Flashbacks of India

The weather is warm in Stockton again, so I put on my lightweight cargo pants, a t-shirt, and my Merrell sandals. The cargo pants were the only non-salwar pants I wore for 6.5 weeks.  I wore them on the long plane flight, I rolled them up in the humidity of Bangkok.  The sandals have trudged through puddles, mud, and likely even feces.  They stayed on my feet in the chaos of being shoved on and off the trains.  They have tread the alleys of red-light districts.

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Natalie and I meet Rob in Berkeley and go to a restaurant with Pakistani, Mexican, and Indian cuisine.  The Indian menu is familiar and I want to order and eat everything:  veg pakora, samosas, mango lassi, palak paneer, galab jamun, and combinations of masala, chicken, curry, paneer.  Gobi for cauliflower, aloo for potatoes.  We order just like how Jane, Rich, and I used to order at Ricky's:  one naan each, a chicken dish, a vegetable dish.  We break the naan dip it in the tender and flavorful chicken curry.  The paneer is a bit firm but the masala makes it worth it. 

The women who serves us is wearing a goldenrod salwar.  There is complimentary tea, which we excitedly discover is actually spiced chai.  Milky and sweet, we drink it in cups three times larger than the small clay cups for two rupees on the streets of India. 

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In two weeks, I will be making a presentation to one of my old churches about my Kolkata trip.  It has been nine months since my return, and now I must find a way to summarize it.  The Poverty Timeline floats back into my head, and I wonder where to begin.  How do I articulate the beauty?  How do I talk for thirty minutes and trust that God is moving hearts where they are ready?  How do they understand this is more than a humanitarian effort, a sacrificial summer?  No, it is a calling for us all. 

And I must make the same presentation in Chinese.

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Nearly every day I stand at the crosswalk waiting for the line to turn.  Anytime there is a someone else waiting with me, I can't help but notice the distance between us.  In India, the people are crowded around you; if the train is in sight, you are pressed sweaty-arm-to-sweaty-arm.  But here a radius of several feet is our normal personal bubble.  Any closer and the stranger may feel uncomfortable, intruded upon. 

Sometimes this still feels foreign to me.