I’ve been in India for about 10 days now. It feels like it’s been a little longer, though; maybe my whole life? Really. It’s a different life here. I’m not one for summer heat, or bugs, but the experiences I’ve had far outweigh the downsides. I’ve been filled to the brim with children’s laughter and smiles, and chai, which is served at least twice a day.
Here’s the thing though. They like to give us chai, because we like chai, but its at the most inconvenient times, like when we’re in the middle of teaching kids. We have to drink it on the spot to keep from being rude. They want us to drink quick so we can get back to the kids, which is made difficult by the fact that they keep giving us more before we can completely empty our cups.
I love it, though. The way they serve chai is the way God has been serving me: always when I don’t expect it and always refilling before I have the chance to say enough. You don’t refuse chai, so why would i refuse a filing up of Jesus? What a crazy concept.
I do have a story for you guys. It’s a good one. A little funny, slightly embarrassing, but I’ll sacrifice for your laughter:
We bought saris. Those are the wraps Indian women wear with crop tops. I don’t know about you, but I’ve always thought the tops were made of that stretchy t-shirt material that American crop tops are made of. They’re definitely not. Each top is tailor made to the wearer. So we got into the shop, pick out our favorite fabrics for our wraps, which they then match to the fabric for the tops. Then a little lady who would telling a little more than a white lie if she told you she’s five foot comes and every inch of our topside. So. Many. Measurements. We then leave the fabric, measurements attached, with the seamstress next door. Fast forward a couple of days and it gets interesting. We’ve got our finished saris, and the tops closely resemble that of Ariel’s tiny mermaid bra. Our translator tells us that they – the indian women – all wear their tops tight. Ok, so tight doesn’t even begin to cover it — literally.
We’re all standing in this little room, eight women, trying to squeeze into these tops that, mind you, have absolutely no stretch whatsoever, and four or five tiny little clasps that are supposed to hold it all in. There’s no way. I’ve got my tummy sucked in as tight as it will go, one rib probably close to breaking, and a chest full of pinched and squished skin. Sexy, i know. Fear not, I did get the top to clasp, but at the risk of popping everything off the at the slightest movement. I blame the chai. We then are wrapped up in all our pretty fabric which goes over a basic skirt that holds in an amazing amount of heat, causing my legs to sweat in a way thats never happened before, hindering any sort of normal walking for the fear of chaffing.
Enter group pictures in direct sunlight. My legs are baking in an overn, I could pop a button, or five, at any moment, and I havent breathed since lunch, which also added to the 4 months pregnant belly I’ve got going on in this thing. Seriously, this is not an attractive ordeal. By the end of it I’ve unbuttoned my bottom clasp, we’ve got some cute pictures, and I’m hopping down the stairs in sumo-wrestler stance, ready to take off the death-trap of beauty until Sunday.
Until then, yours truly, Not Eating Until Sunday.
