Disturbing the peace

(c) Anil Surya

The men came. A mob of them. Barging into an old mission hospital. Loud shouts. Slogans raised. Smashing things.

A mission hospital where for many years almost nothing was happening. After the foreign missionaries had left, a previous medical superintendent had run it as a personal kingdom. When he was ousted by the parent organisation, this man had sent a drummer to the villages to announce that the hospital was shut down - but his new clinic was open for business.

A mission hospital where many prayers for true transformation had been made. And where after years of struggle some real results are being seen. Hundreds of children attending new schools started in the surrounding villages. Patients coming into the hospital after years. A wholeistic community health and development programme - which is linked to local believers making courageous steps of faith.

The town is called "Kachhwa" (literally 'Tortoise') - a sleepy forgotten place in the badlands of eastern UP. The district Mirzapur - famous for its previous member of parliament - the notorious ex-lady-bandit Phoolan Devi - who was murdered while in office. The people who barged in - who physically assaulted Dr. Raju Abraham - leaving a deep gash near his eye from a thrown stone ---- who are these people?

Members of the same organisation that promotes 'service to the nation' - and who cannot stand the idea of anything other than a Hindu fascist state emerge. Never mind that the hospital had been given government permission to hold its meeting for 400 parents and children from the schools (catering largely to lower caste students). Never mind that for years and years people in villages surrounding this sleepy town continue to send their children to lightless rooms where there nimble fingers and small bodies are used hour after hour to make rugs. Never mind that this is India shining - the land of the free. If the RSS says that you can't meet - then you can't meet. Police permission be damned.

And if you dare to go against the organisation that is seen as disturbing the peace.

Please pray for our country - where incidents like this continue on and on. Those who come in and smash up things are let 'off' - and those who are smashed up are accused of 'hurting sentiments' - 'provoking' etc. etc. The constitution seems far away from things at Kachhwa.

But our prayers make a difference. Pray and pray hard!



P.s. you can read a small news item about this incident here

You can send a note of encouragement to Dr. Raju Abraham and the folks at Kachhwa Christian Hospital to: MARaju@compuserve.com

Contact

Untitled - 1996 (c) Yashpal Chandrakar

We were having supper with our brother Upendra 2 weeks ago. The conversation came around to the internet - and the possibilities of tracking down people we had lost contact with.

"It doesn't work - we tried twice to find Sucharita" we told Upendra. "Lets try again" came the response. Upendra tried to find 'Sucharita's on the net. Nothing seemed to fit. Wrote a note to various Sucharitas at yahoo, rediffmail, gmail etc. No response.

Sucharita was Sheba's dear friend from 3rd to 11th standard in Rourkela. She had then gone to Shanti Niketan (the universtity founded by Rabindranath Tagore) to study art. Shortly afterwards she got married. Sheba only met her once after that. Sucharita's father moved away from Rourkela. We had often talked about somehow meeting Sucharita. And prayed.

Then the break-through. Somehow Sheba said that name of Sucharita's husband: Yashpal Chandrakar. Having drawn blank with 'Sucharita' - we were not expecting much. Amazingly we got multiple 'hits'! Yashpal is an artist of some repute and has shown and sold his work in many galleries. A short bio of Yashpal can be seen: here.

Man with Lotus, limited edition print (c) Yashpal Chandrakar

We couldn't find an email address though. So we did the next best thing - we wrote to the galleries. The next day an email came back from one of them with an email address. We sent a note and waited. Days went by. No response.

.

On Tuesday night at 11.30 we were in a prayer meeting with our church - praying for our country which awakened to freedom on the mid-night hour 60 years ago. The mobile started to ring. Quietly of course. We didn't know the number so we ignored it. The calls came repeatedly. Then they stopped.

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The next morning at 7 - another call. "Can I speak to Bethsheba please?" a man's voice asked.
"Who is it?" Andi asked sleepily, having hit the sack at a ripe 3 AM.

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"I am Yashpal Chandrakar"

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Needless to say - any sleep evaporated faster than the first drop of monsoon rain on a hot tin roof!

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The next hour was a whirlwind of finding out what has happened over 20 years. Suchrita and Yashpal have children in 9th and 10th standards and live outside Delhi. "Your husband is a famous artist" Sheba told Suchrita - "No, he is a good artist" replied her recently-found friend.

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We have an invitation to attend the opening of Yashpal's next show - at Jehangir Art Gallery on the 24th of Sept.

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The whole Chandrakar family will be there. Us Eichers too (D.v.).

National Hero

Dr. B.R. Ambedkar. Our first law minister. Freedom fighter. Contrarian. Visionary. The first Dalit to get a PhD in the US. Chairman of the Constitutional Drafting Committee. The father of the Indian Constitution.

Today Enoch was asked to come to school dressed up as an 'Indian National Leader'.

He went as Ambedkar. A man who purposely wore a western suit to set himself apart from other national leaders who were wearing khadi - the home-spun cotton that was used by many as a sign of swadeshi - of self-sufficiency and self-rule without the British.

Ambedkar said famously. 'I was born a Hindu, but I will not die as one.'

And he did not. He converted to Buddhism, along with a large proportion of the lower / outcaste followers that he galvanised.

Much has been made about why Ambedkar did not convert to be a follower of the Lord Jesus. There are many apocryphal stories. Including a story of 4 bishops trying to woo Ambedkar to their fold etc. Similar to stories that say that if only Gandhi had met a 'real Christian' (whatever that means) he would have become one... Only judgement day will really tell.

There is however an interesting claim made in a recent book by Arthur McPhee called "The Road To Delhi: Bishop Pickett Remembered". In it McPhee says that Ambedkar - who was a close friend of the Methodist Bishop J. Waskom Pickett twice asked Pickett to baptise him - secretly. Pickett refused.

The key seems to be the requested secrecy. Baptism is not to be done hidden - it is a public declaration of internal change within - and allegiance to the Lord Jesus. It seems that Ambedkar looked at the options - counted the cost - and sadly chose the trappings of power over following the wounded healer.

What will we be remembered for? As great a man as Ambedkar was - easily the man whose ideas and aspirations have the most powerful impact in the on-going experiment that our country affords - his true legacy will ultimately be measured not in centuries but in millenia - by the power of millenia. Strangely, in that calculus, the tiny acts of obedience of the littlest known follower of the man from Nazareth town take a greater weight than all the apparently world shaping acts of the powerful (even if they have come up from among the powerless).

I tell you the truth, unless you change and become like little children,
you will never enter the kingdom of heaven. - Mat. 18.3

Light

No comments needed.

The shot taken was taken at our previous residence in 2003. We had minimal furniture - so Stefan was lying on our living room mattress.

India Shining

(c) Eric Gran - www.granphoto.com

Take a look at the man holding the lights.

Its a cold night in Cuttack - in December 1998. A wedding procession is out - the scion of a mining company is getting married at the cricket stadium. The band is playing the latest Bollywood hits and the guests are dancing on the street as the groom rides the white horse.

A generator perched on the back of the orchestra vehicle sets up a bass throb below the trumpets and the vibrating electronic keyboard. Linked to the gen-set are wires that go out to two rows of men - cold, thin, shivering men - and some women - who are carrying the lights. Two rows of walking lights.

I was there that night. And so was my friend Eric Gran who took this haunting picture. Eric has the unique ability to inobrusively blend in wherever he is. The invisible American. A quiet, unassuming, humble man, he is at home with beggars and kings. And his camera quietly clicks.

I remember feeling so foolish - being with the dancers - and yet being escorted by these shivering, malnourished light holders. I forgot about the experience - only reminded recently when I came across Eric's website and saw the image of the light-bearer.

Eric has been criticised for showing our country in a bad light. The crux of the matter is in the light-carrier himself. Most of us are blind to him - and the many, many others like him. For those of us who live in appartments he is just another of the many transient, migrant and likely to be alcholic losers who flit by - the men who work on construction sites and as security guards.

We are blind by volition.

I remember a class-mate of mine at Yale earnestly telling others there that "it really isn't that bad in India. I know lots of people and none are really poor." Living in his posh, gated South-Delhi community, this brilliant young man was speaking the truth - his cook, gardener, driver and sweeper were all well taken care of. The others ...

I grew up next to a family who lived on the pavement. We lived cheek-by jowl. The distance between us was the width of a brick. They were out on the street. We were enclosed by 4 walls. They were flooded every monsoon - huddling under the bus shelter when the waters rose (and it did each year). We were inside - and had the luxury of a garden with trees and a common lawn. Their arguments and bickering crossed the walls to us. Nothing is secret on the street. Did our prayer meetings and songs reach out to them?

Urban squalor eats you up.

You want to run away and shout. You get angry and frustrated. You want to take extreme steps. Most of us adopt a cold-hearted tactic. We ignore it. Though we don't want to admit it, we just put it out of our mind.

Do we see someone defecating besides the train-tracks? Blank it out. Do we see a destitute woman clearly in need of help? Don't have the time. Do we see the appalling bits of refuse that people live under and in? It's their fault - should have stopped drinking - get working...

We are about to celebrate 60 years of independence of our beloved country. On August 15th our daughter Asha will go to school and sing the national anthem. We will wave our little plastic flags. Given so much squalor and cynicism, is there much, or even anything to celebrate?

We were discussing in the youth study at our home this evening - looking at the prophetic picture spoken through Isaiah (ch. 26). A picture of a future day when justice rules. When a city is known for salvation. A holy nation.

How far we seem from that time. And yet, Isaiah saw the same squalor in his day. And our Lord said that the coming Kingdom had already begun. We live both in the now and the in future. Both in the often dispiriting picture of abject depravity - and in the complete confidence that we as adopted children to King Jesus are being transformed - and are already blessed with all spiritual blessings in the heavenly places. This is not an airy-fairy kind of belief. We know that we are in a passing phase - an important one - but one which is a prelude to a time when justice will reign and righteousness will flow like a river.

Isaiah puts it this way:

Trust in the LORD forever,
for the LORD, the LORD, is the Rock eternal.
He humbles those who dwell on high,
he lays the lofty city low;
he levels it to the ground and casts it down in the dust.
Feet trample it down -
the feet of the oppressed
the footsteps of the poor. (Is. 27:5-6)

Stefan has made a number of paintings on the dignity - and hope - that is there for and through the poor. These two are called Child of God 1 & 2. The dyptich is oil and gold flakes on canvas - with cut-outs and a photo in each of the figures painted of a small child. The destitute are very very precious. So precious that our Lord refused to remain in His glory - but became an orphan, refugee, homeless wanderer - was called a bastard and was executed as a criminal.

Such love...

(c) Stefan Eicher - http://www.limnersociety.com

India Shining? A previous government tried to get re-elected on that 'feel-good' slogan. We have great hopes for our country - and know that we are privileged to live in exciting times. We know that each light-holder in Cuttack and other mofussil towns, each and every urban destitute person in Delhi and Mumbai, each and every peasant in Eastern UP is very precious in our Lord's eyes.

Oh, may we have His heart of love. And may we see our nation become a tree of healing to all nations.

Please pray for India. Jai Hind! And Jai Yeshu!

Guns and Butter

Andi's mother grew up in war. The 2nd World War.

She spent three years away from her parents. Because of the Allied bombs that were falling on her home town of Leipzig, Germany.

As a six year old she was sent to be with her relatives in the country side - while her parents continued to live in the fear that their house would be blown apart by high explosives dropped at night by American and British airplanes.

It was only when she was 9 years old that she made her way across the destruction that was Germany at that time - and saw her parents again.

Needless to say toy guns were a no-no in the Eicher household.

Needless to say, guns were a great source of intrigue for young Andi.

Needless to say, when young Enoch builds a lego toy and tells his father excitedly that it is something used in war-time, the stomache tightens.

I ask: "What is it?" while looking at a long yellow protruding piece that looks suspiciously like the gun barrel of a tank. "Its a light - so that they can see at night" chirps Enoch...

So far.

Its been some days since Andi has heard gun shots.

The kind he heard in Churchandpur when a grenade was thrown at the Bihar regiment - and the soldiers went through town shooting.

The kind he heard in New Haven, Connecticut - the richest per capita income state in the US of A. When Andi heard fire-works - only they were not crackers - they were bullets in the drug wars between rival dealers for crack cocaine.

Could this be the land of the Free?

I was reminded of this recently by my calling our colleagues in Jharkhand. By mobile!

Asha's birth certificate had been misplaced. The school called up saying they would expel her if we did not produce her original one within a set time. I called up my colleagues at Nav Jivan Hospital to see if they could go to the village registrar and have another one made up.

"Of course - don't worry!" came the cheerful reply from Lukas Prakash.

The days crept by. The photocopy that I sent finally arrived there. Then it was time to badger the registrar (the Panchayat Sevak - "Village Council Servant"). "Yes, Yes, he will surely do it."

Then the Maoist called a day-long blockade. Everything shut down. Over there in Jharkhand at least. The Panchayat Sevak spent his day laying low. Did he watch old movies on a CD player? Did he watch the latest masala song-and-dance on TV? Who knows?

What we do know is that large areas of our country are still under the law of the gun. An 'underground' group here calls for a bandh (total strike) and everyone has to obey. A group of jungle-dwelling revolutionaries declares something else - and all the people have to put up with their demands. The permanently patrolling armed forces say something in another part of our Land - and the locals have to bow down.

All this while I go to the supermarket to buy frozen chicken. The package has the date printed on it - showing that it was slaughtered this morning - along with its weight and cost.

As we come close to celebrating our 60th Anniversary of Indepedence next week - spare a thought for how many are still under the gun - while the urban islands swim in butter.

Could this be the land of the Free?

Jai Hind!

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photo taken by Stefan Eicher on his Manipur trip in Dec 2005

Winner - part 2

I had the privilege of attending a funeral wake today.

Our monsoonal Mumbai cleared up for a bit and we actually had some rays of sun. The cool leafy green of the trees in the small compound framed the scene - a ground floor of the appartment where Uncle had lived his last days - now a meeting point to thank God for his life.

The group was singing Hindi songs - Sione Desh, Hamare He Desh (Zion country, its our Country...)

The coffin was open. Uncle's body was there - the family was around it - his quietly greiving wife, Varkey his son, Nancy his daugther in law, one grand child sat for some time - the other was playing outside.

It is good to go to funerals. We taste life so much stronger in the presence of death.

We also realise how absolutely wrong death is. Stanley talked about this. His words were light - his bearing dignified but not stooped. His hope was clear. God's words spoke through Stan.

Uncle is no more - we do not pray for his soul - we know that Jesus is delighted with him. While we know the family feels his loss - it is death that is the real enemy. And Jesus has stretched out his hands wide enough to swallow death and all its horrors - and so we do not grieve like those without hope.

We cry. And I did. But with the real knowledge that God is here. And that death has been defeated - if we trust Jesus.

He is our champion.

Both as the victor and conquerer - and as our advocate and guide.

See you soon Uncle!