Читать книгу She Made Me Laugh - Stephanie Emmons - Страница 11

As I mentioned in one of those early letters to Margie, on one of our first days in Cochin, Miriam and I rode in a little motorized rickshaw taxi with one of the sisters to a textiles shop to purchase saris. I chuckled to myself as I was reminded of the Schwarzenegger movie Total Recall. The taxis in that sci-fi world were strikingly similar to these, although the drivers in the movie were automated robots … but I digress.

In our rickshaw taxi, we sipped mango juice from drink boxes with little straws. It was the first time I had tried mango juice and I did not like it. I later looked in vain for apple juice, orange juice—even pineapple, but no luck. Mango seemed to have cornered the market. But more than any juice, because of the unbelievably humid and oppressive heat, bottled water had to be our constant companion. We had to have some kind of consistent hydration, as there was always a risk of foreigners becoming ill from dehydration.

It seemed that wherever we went in India that is how people referred to us: foreigners. It wasn’t a derogatory term, just a description that meant we were not from this place, as if anyone needed to be told this. One look at our pale whiteness must have spoken loudly that we were not native to India. There we were, a couple of tallish, blond, pale-skinned young women who drew stares and the close attention of many a native passerby.

In fact, the first time I ventured out in public proudly wearing my newly acquired silk sari, I received an unexpected lesson in Indian culture: they are not shy to reach out and touch. A group of about twenty women, who were outside on a break from a sewing class at a community center, approached me, smiling and chatting. Then, I noticed, they looked determined. First, one woman touched my sari, holding out the long end of it to admire it. Then, another was feeling my hair, and another my earrings. I guess I was something of a novelty and it was showand-tell time. They turned me around and around, chatting excitedly to one another in their own language, taking great pleasure in me. I didn’t like it. What I didn’t realize is that they were tickled at the unusual way I had donned my sari. Also, evidently my handiwork needed some tweaking.

A flurry of arms came at me and they had me unraveled and redressed again in about thirty seconds. It’s funny now, to remember, but at the time I was unnerved and unsure of what to do. My face must have given me away because Miriam, who had apparently assembled her sari successfully, stood nearby, laughing hard. Seeing her face let me know that everything was okay. Once again, Miriam’s undaunted joy reminded me that all was well. God had matched me with just the right person, given my growing unease. She was kind, funny, and so laid back. Most days, I was kept from taking things too seriously thanks to her calm manner and corny jokes, which she would endlessly try to explain if I didn’t laugh as hard as she had thought I should. Obviously, she would say, I didn’t get the joke.

One day, as we drove through a rural area, Father John took us to see a small silk factory. It seemed to be in the middle of nowhere. There, several dozen local women dressed in simple saris spun silk into exquisite textiles. There were shiny jewel tones, muted pastels and bold patterns, all bordered in gold or silver. Their machines looked ancient, but the workers were obviously skilled. The work they turned out was stunning. Then our tour guide brought us up to the roof where zillions of silkworms were drying in the sun. It was fascinating to see, and although the worms were clearly dead, I got the heebie-jeebies and didn’t stay up there for long. I excused myself and headed back downstairs, starting to feel itchy. Outside the factory was a small body of water, like a canal or river. A warm breeze slowly moved the long strands of trees that looked a bit like weeping willows, their ends dipping into the water.

On the way home we bought fresh, local pineapples. The butter-soft, bright yellow flesh was so exquisite that once again I wondered what the heck kind of pineapples I’d been eating all my life back in Canada.

Meanwhile, my letters to Margie remained a lifeline. I told her everything that was happening to me in India.

Dear Margie,

I’m writing to you right now because I am overwhelmed and I know you’ll understand. Miriam went out with Father John for the afternoon and I just spent eight hours with a priest and two nuns who spoke nothing to one another but their language, constantly. I tried to inject little things when I could, and they spoke English for a minute or two and then switched back. So I was just sitting there, pretty much staring at the wall. I thought I’d scream! I couldn’t leave because I had no idea where we were; two sisters and I had taken a taxi and two buses to go visit this priest at his parish. We were there to help him decorate the altar for a festival the next day. We covered the entire altar with rolls of white paper, which seemed to take hours, and then they had me cover it with colored sequins of all shapes and sizes. I glued each one on individually. The three of them debated enthusiastically for a long while over which color streamers to put on, how high or low to hang them, whether they should add fringe, and so forth. They settled on a fuchsia theme. The whole thing was over the top as far as my own personal taste was concerned, but to each their own. Finally, we came in from the church to the priest’s residence to have lunch.

Some of the strong, unfamiliar smells of their food turn me right off. This tends to decrease the appetite. They gave me two pieces of chicken, which I had happened to notice had been sitting on the counter for about four hours. When I said no thanks, they said it had been prepared especially for me. Despite my multiple polite attempts at declining, they insisted. I nibbled on a few bites and just couldn’t stomach them. I ate a little bit of rice and drank some water but ultimately had to tell them my stomach was upset so they would stop offering me food! It’s nice to be cared for but I felt like I wanted to punch something. Luckily, earlier in the week I had learned their word for enough: madi. So when I said it, they were pleasantly surprised that I knew it and they dropped the subject.

After lunch they asked if I’d like to lie down and I gratefully accepted, glad to be alone for a while. They showed me a sort of sofa in Father’s office, and although it was made of wood, there was a puffy mint green throw pillow, which, once propped under my head, did the trick. I wasn’t ill, just bored and a bit irritated with the whole situation. From the bookshelf beside me, I picked out a book called Song of the Bird by Anthony DeMello, an Indian author. It was a collection of stories about contemplative prayer, finding God within, etc., like parables. It really spoke to me.

On the way home while looking for a taxi in a busy area, I asked Sister Carmel if we could find somewhere to make a phone call so I could call my Mom. Shaking her head, she said that I’d have to pay cash up front and it would be very expensive. She basically was saying no, though not unkindly. She told me I could make the call later from the Center where we were staying and save money. I guess I just needed to talk to my Mom, or I felt powerless, or both. My face flushed and I knew if I blinked hot tears would spill out and roll down my cheeks. I held it together a while, but when we were settled in the taxi, Sister Carmel caught sight of my face. “You look sad,” she said. “Just tired,” I replied, smiling a little. And that was it. I was done chatting. I turned and looked out the window.

The rest of the day I had a very hard time smiling and carrying on much in the way of conversation, which was not easy. They always want to chat. It was a difficult day. Sometimes I just want to go home.

This place is so bizarre in every way—the food, the smells, the language, the animal sounds, the Muslim chanting loudly at 5 in the morning, the smoke and smog, the people staring at us all the time—everything! I’m letting it all hang out with you in this letter because I know I can and because I have to. It’s 5 pm and Miriam will be out till 8 or 9 pm. I miss her. I thought I’d be fine without her for a while, but I have a feeling we are each other’s lifeline. Well—she’s mine, at least. If I were here without a friend from home I’d be having a much harder time.

Anyway, I’d better run. It’s getting late and we have to get up early tomorrow. Hope all is well back home! I’ll call soon.

Love Steph

I needed Miriam in India, and I needed to know that Margie was there for me, too, at home. I kept writing to Margie, and sometimes I was more upbeat!

Dear Margie,

Today is our last day in Cochin for a while. Tomorrow, Wednesday, Jan 17, we leave for Calcutta by train at 4:30 pm (which is 6 am Wednesday for you). It should take about three days! We’ll call as soon as we arrive. It may take a little while to find a phone and arrange to call so don’t worry if you don’t hear from us. This week has been … memorable. It’s been challenging in many ways, but I wouldn’t trade it. And we are succeeding in losing weight without even trying! Neither of us has been sick so that’s a bonus. Lately we’ve been preparing our own meals because we don’t always like what they are serving. We eat mostly rice, veggies, and some chicken. And bananas—they are a staple at every meal. As you know, I hate bananas, but these ones are so fresh and sweet, they’re almost bearable. When we get back here to Cochin after our time in Calcutta, we’re going up to “the hills” where apparently some of the native peoples have never seen white people! I haven’t seen any elephants yet, but Miriam said she saw 6 or 7 on the road the other day. I hope I get to ride one!

Take care. I miss you.

Love Steph