She Made Me Laugh. Stephanie Emmons
must be 100 degrees in here! Can’t we get a fan? I think I’m going to pass out. Whose idea was this trip again? And what is that smell?”
These were some of the profound thoughts running through my head on my first day in India. I guess I had assumed I would be inspired by the natural beauty, excited about exploring and looking forward to tasting some local cuisine. But instead, all I could think of was how awful I felt.
Besides the obscene jet lag of ten and a half hours of time difference, the heat and humidity were making me nauseous, and we’d just landed an hour earlier. How, I wondered aloud, was I going to get through the next forty days like this? I was suddenly dizzy from a combination of heat, fatigue, the beginnings of a severe culture shock, and sleep-deprivation.
I’m sure my whining on the very first day did not bode well for Miriam, my friend and traveling buddy. If she was annoyed, though, she didn’t show it. In fact, she was a rock for me the entire time. Five years her senior, I had fully expected to be the one encouraging and supporting her when the going got tough in India. But pretty much without exception, it was she who saw me through some very difficult days.
As I would soon discover, those weeks in India would be the most emotionally trying times in my life. I think my difficulties had a lot to do with feeling insecure or unsafe, and not being in control. I like life to be predictable, to feel that I have a handle on things. Little did I know when we were leaving Ottawa, and excitement filled every fiber of my body, that those forty days and nights would be anything but predictable.
I just felt so lost. It was hard at times to keep from freaking out. I know this sounds dramatic, but it’s true. Some days I was convinced that if I didn’t get on a plane that very day and head straight for home, something disastrous would happen. I don’t know what I thought that disaster might be, but I was left with a feeling of ongoing anxiety just below the surface.
* * *
When I set foot for the first time on Indian soil, something wasn’t quite right. Yes, there was the wall of humidity and the pungent smell of something burning, and my churning stomach didn’t help. But that wasn’t it. Something was seriously wrong with me and I knew it from the first moment.
“Forty days.” I said aloud. “Forty days until I can get back on a plane and go home.”
Miriam looked at me and her face fell. I must have looked ashen, because she took my hand and began what would become her vigil of comfort and reassurance to me. Me! Who had so recently gushed to everyone back home about the great time we would have in India, about how many lives we would touch, and how we would say hello to Mother Teresa on their behalf. I had been such an ass. No. What really happened was that Miriam carried me throughout the trip and I know I would have thrown in the towel without her help. I was humbled to discover that at every turn, every snag, any little wrench in the works, I was thrown on my ear. I don’t think a day went by while in India that I didn’t question, complain to God, or try to bargain.
Why, God? Why?
Why did I have to come here?
Couldn’t you have picked a cooler country?
Can you make something happen so that I can go home early?
I just want to go home. Who knew you could be this miserable in a place called the City of Joy?
4 SO SARI
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