Hungry

I sat next to the man and listened. He was emaciated, lying on a hospital bed. His eyes sunken but intense. He spoke urgently, telling me his story.

It was a jumble. But some things stood out. He had been robbed. He was confused and couldn't remember things clearly. He had met many people on his wanderings - some good - others who had taken advantage of him. Somewhere along the line Prakash and Vinod found him. Did he first meet Vinod in Goa? Was it here in Mumbai?

We will call the man Bill. Bill is from Canada. He almost died on the streets of Mumbai.

At the end of November we had organised a 'Day of Service' in which young people from local churches met families that we are working with and spent the day with them. One of the churches, which meets in South Mumbai, sent 12 young adults to this programme. A number of these young men were the ones who saved Bill. Literally.

Bill has almost starved to death. He suffers from mental confusion. His story is one where loneliness and success cross paths, with multiple side alleys of alcohol, women and drugs. Its also a story of a man very hungry. Hungry for love and acceptance.

Bill is by profession a dentist. A man who had the money flowing in - and who lived the life of the yacht, house by the lake, parties on him etc. He also is a man with deep rifts with his parents - a rejection of his father and mother - and a desire to find himself. Finding no way out in his town of 30,000 - and having already been admitted once with an overdose, Bill decided that India would give him the truth.

The story gets even more hazy here, but it seems that over the past months, Bill has been wandering a lonely path, observing, thinking and gradually losing control.

Talking to him, he was most lucid about his Canadian past - and his fear and loathing of going back. How starved for love this man is.

Bill has tried everything possible to live a good life, to not harm anyone, to be kind and benevolent. And yet things were clearly spinning way out of control in his own country - and he has been blended here.

I found myself going back to what Jesus said: "Come to me, all you who are weak and heavy laden, and I will give you rest." Its something that I have often shared with my friends who have HIV - who are staggering under the crashing loads of confusion and guilt.

As always, I can't solve Bill's problems. It is hard even to fully understand how much of what he is saying is true, but I do know that Bill desperately needs rest. Rest for his battered, emaciated body. Rest for his spinning mind. Rest of his love-starved soul. Rest for Bill - a precious child of God - wandering far from home - perhaps without a home.

We prayed together before I left. I think I saw a bit of rest in Bill's eyes as he thanked me.

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Just before I went, Simon, an elder from the church who has been shepherding the effort to help Bill, brought Bill some ice-cream. Bill cried and said that he had been craving ice-cream all day.

Another passing

Mrs. Naina died in the fag end of 2009.

She died alone. In the bowels of the HIV ward of a large government hospital in Mumbai.

Its very hard.

We had known Mrs. Naina since February 2007. A Bengali lady. A widow. She struggled long and hard with her HIV.

There were some bright points in the journey. Mrs. Naina seemed to respond well to medication for TB and the ART that aimed to keep the HIV levels low and allow her immunity to rebuild itself. Our staff met her repeatedly in the tiny hovel she stayed in. There were real smiles many times.

But all through, Mrs. Naina continued to struggle with her health. She was weak. She had chronic urinary incontinence which severely limited her ability to work. Her brother and sister in law moved from Kolkota to look after her. They went through ups and downs with her.

Finally it was becoming clear that Mrs. Naina was just not going to get better. We tried to provide palliative care at home. Mrs. Naina was angry. Her brother and sister did not want us to be there. Neither did Mrs. Naina. They began treating her at private hospitals and admitting her at the government hospital in Thane.

They hired a lady at Rs. 300 a day to stay with her in the hospital. Mrs. Naina recovered a bit but fell sick shortly after.

They finally took her to JJ.

She died alone.

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We have had a hard start to 2010. The fireworks went off all around us, but we feel tired and drawn. It is very important for us not to lose hope. To stand up for each other and to focus our eyes on God who provides real comfort even in situations of extreme grief and apparent hopelessness.

Though we wish we could rescript the last few months of Mrs. Naina's life - we have over the past 2.5 years had many wonderful experiences with her and her brother and sister-in-law. She loved God and held on to His hand. We know that she is at peace now - and look forward to meeting her again.

Postcards from Paradise - end of 2009 edition

Four days can hold a lot!

Sleeping, talking, eating, more sleeping, reading, more eating, songs, a trip to the beach, more sleeping and talking, more songs, games, worship with the local saints, more talking and eating, more games and all-round fun as a family.

Here are a few glimpses into our days with Amma and Appa here in Tungalam Village, outside Vishakapatnam.

In 30 mins we get onto the auto – and then through the night to our train and then 2 nights and a day (with confirmed tickets this time) before we arrive in Thane at 3 AM on the 31st.

We have already harvested many happy memories!

Rude comfort

For there was no room for them in the inn…

Whether it was a real inn that Joseph and Mary were looking for – or whether the guest rooms of their extended families were just too full – the fact is that the new family was weary and alone and had to find a rude accommodation in an animal shed.

We experienced a little bit of that on Christmas eve ourselves.

A month ago we decided that since we had not met Amma and Appa all year – that we just had to go and meet them – even if it was only for 4 days – between Christmas and New Years. Getting tickets for the train was impossible. But since we knew a person high up in the railways – we were told that we would be put on a VIP quota.

On the 24th – we were almost in a daze of tiredness as we packed up for the 30 hour trip. Just before we left we checked what our seat numbers would be – and found to our horror that the VIP quota had not worked. We were still without a berth.

What to do? Our cell phones had been giving problems and we tried to phone the person. The taxi was at the door. We got in and left for the hour-long drive to Kalyan, not knowing what the next steps would be.

Our friend told us that he would talk to the Station Manager at Kalyan. He did. When we got to Kalyan we searched him down. He had us get an unreserved ticket to start with. With that in hand, we were then given over to the head ticket collector – he was to meet the ticket collector from the train when it came in and make sure we got a berth.

The train steamed in. We met the man. No berths available. We got in the train with sinking hearts and a hope that something would work out.

Something did work out – but not in the way that we wanted. With each step of the trip, we met the ticket collectors. They told us to wait and that they would check and see if there were any vacancies. Two of them assured us that we would at least get a berth. The kids sat down. Sheba and I took turns standing and sitting at the edges of people’s berths. Our monster suitcase and its mini-twin were next to the door. Asha’s violin was perched here and there.

Stations came and went. People kept getting in more and more. We did not have a berth. Ticket collectors came through and did not say anything to us. I went out and pleaded.

I saw notes passing hands and others gave the bribes to the ticket collectors.

Pune came and went. It was dark. The kids were tired. So were Sheba and I. We gave them a bit of the supper Sheba had made. Perched precariously in the passage-way.

People were accommodating, but there were so many of us – and of other ‘berth-less’ passengers.
I had to remember my own behaviour in the past. My statements to people that ‘this was a reserved coach’ – that people should ‘go to the general compartment.’

As the night became dark and cold, the promises of the ticket collectors rang hollow. Metallic taste in mouth. Prayers said and re-said.

Finally I went to one of the coupes and asked whether we could sleep on the ground in between the berths. It was hard to do so. They agreed. We spread out our sheet on the ground and Sheba sat down with Asha lying in her lap. Enoch was given part of a berth to sleep on by another lady. I stood and perched at the edge of the berth.

Slowly the hours past. Sheba finally slid down and lay beside Asha. I mounted vigil. It was surreal to read “The Prodigal God” by Tim Keller and “Refractions” by Makoto Fujimori – such beautiful prose – in such dingy surroundings.

The whole theatre of the absurd was made more so by my attire. I have never worn shorts on a trip (ok in the last 30 years that is), but had to do so because I had a large infected boil on my calf. So here I was, wearing shorts and dosing myself with ampiclox every 6 hours (helps to have a doctor in the house), and applying Neosporin lotion to the angry looking brute on my leg every now and then.

Half-way through the night we switched. Sheba sat up for some hours while I dozed on the floor with Asha. Then it was my turn again. Dawn came slowly.

The day continued our perching on the edge. Sheba and the kids were magnificent. No word of complaint. Christmas day found us not in the situation we had hoped for. The small gifts that we had prepared were brought out in stages. Two books for the kids from Alistair and Merryn Appleby made their appearance first. The kids devoured them. Breakfast and lunch was eked out in stages. Our neighbours basically gave up a seat for us. We rotated through it. Moving occasionally from one corner to the next coupe. All along our jumbo case had become the seat for sundry men next to the door. Sheba and I took turns catching some winks of shut-eye in the upper berths during the morning.

We were not only passing through peak time – but also through political turbulence. The day we left our friend Nalini Gabriel and her daughters had been halted in their train by striking agitationists demanding a new state of Telangana out of Andhra Pradesh. They were delayed for over 10 hours. We only ran 2 hours late when we came into Vijaywada at 4 PM – 24 hours after we left Kalyan.

I finally got a nod from a ticket collector to take up a berth in the next bogie – and we gratefully shifted over for the final 7 hours of the journey in the relative roominess of a berth to share.

And so we came to heaven. Amma and Appa’s home at midnight. Victor having picked us up in the auto. A lit tree waiting. A hot bath for us all. And sleep. Blessed sleep.

Train ride

The Eichers are on the move again. This time over to the other side of India. 30 hours by train - including Christmas eve and most of Christmas day.

Our destination? 4 days of bliss with Sheba's parents at their home outside Vishakapatnam - of which the first 2 will be with Sheba's sister Sarah, her hubby Victor and their lovely daughter Joanna.

Then 29th night, back in the train and 2 nights and 30 hours later we will arrive in Thane at 3 am. Having done a goodly tour of our beloved country using our beloved rail system (thank God for cheap tickets).


We have another 16 hours to go. As always plenty of last minute things to grind through before we can collapse in our moving holiday coach! Ah the books that are waiting to be read. The pulling into small unknown stations and getting out to stretch.

Its not often that we have as much room as we did when we travelled from Ranchi to Rourkela (above) earlier this year. Lets see what tomorrow holds!

Vishakapatnam here we come!

Happy

Froh zu sein bedarf es wenig, Und wer froh ist, ist ein Koenig.
You have to love the German language for its ability to capture something simply but meatily (no prizes for guessing what Martin Luther spoke and wrote).

The couplet above was taught to me on my mother's knee. She would sing it in her own special way - the voice of which travels over the years in my memory.

The gist is this: it doesn't take much to make one happy, and whoever is happy - is a king!

How totally and completely true this is. How totally and completely against most of what our over-complex world this is.

Last month Sheba visited 3 widows living within shouting distance of each other. They were a study in contrasts.

All 3 are HIV positive. All have lost their husbands to HIV. All are taking Antiretroviral medications to keep the virus in check.

Mrs. Lalita is a picture of despair. She has 2 sons who are HIV positive. Two months ago she almost died from anaemia - but was saved by blood donations and transfusion at JSK. Its a hard life for Mrs. Lalita. We have offered to help her with food supplies - given by local church members but she refused saying she doesn't need them. Yet when Sheba met her Mrs. Lalita said that she had been running away her landlord. She has not paid her rent for the last 3 months, and when she saw her landlord coming she slipped away until the person left. When Sheba asked her whether she was meeting for worship as she promised, Mrs. Lalita said "I will go when the man up there gives me a job."

Mrs. Reshmi is a picture of hope. She has 4 children and used to live in a dump of a house - a filthy set of rags hanging on strings across the little room. Today she lives in the same house. She is still thin and still has 4 children who are growing up. But there is an amazing change. The home is spick and span. The children are going to school and dilligently help in the home. The oldest son has written down over a hundred songs in his diary and quickly gets it out to sing. Mrs. Reshmi worships with a simple group of Jesus followers. She has bad days too - but the changes in her life is remarkable.

Mrs. Manohar is confused and sad. She has 2 children and helps at JSK in cleaning. She is on ART and every time Sheba asks about her medication she says that she is taking them regularly. When asked for her pill chart, she says that she has it at home. Sheba visited her - and asked her to show the chart. She did. It was blank. Mrs. Manohar has not been taking the medications regularly. She cried. She has seen another local woman who is not responding to medications and she is scared. 'What will happen to me when I get to that state?' she asks. 'What will happen to my little girls?'

There are no easy answers. But it is good to remember the amazing fact of the all-knowing creator becoming small and vulnerable and being born into a home like one of these 3 ladies - broken and poor - of no consequence to the bright and the best.

Emmanuel means 'God with us.' Mrs. Reshmi has understood this well and is living it out in her own simple way. Mrs. Manohar is learning to accept and grow in it. Mrs. Lalita has tasted the benefits but continues on her own way so far.

A little light

Two kids. Singing a song. Holding hands and doing a little dance. Beautiful little ones.

Both the children of women who were used by men in prostitution.

Timothy - as we will call the boy on the left - has already seen far more than any little boy of his age should ever see.

His mother left the brothel last year and accepted the offer of rehabilitation at a small centre close to JSK. His mother is HIV positive - but he is not.

After some time at the centre, his mother seemed to be doing well - and little Timothy was the cynosure of all eyes.

One day his mother told the supervisors at the home that she wanted to go to her home village. The supervisor bought her a ticket and some days later accompanied her to the train station and waved good-bye as the train with little Timothy and his mother left the station headed for the South.

A few weeks later - after not hearing anything from Timothy's mother, the supervisor got a shock. A team from Bhiwandi came and asked why the woman who had left the brothel there was back plying her trade.

The supervisor was crushed. When we heard about it we were terribly saddened. Timothy's mother had played an elaborate ruse - and had gotten off the train a few stations further and gone back to 'the trade'. Little Timothy - as with many children of prostitutes - was placed under the bed when his mother had customers. A bad scene.

But people prayed.

And amazingly, some weeks later, Timothy's mother returned - along with Timothy. The folks at the rehab centre had the grace to welcome them back - and now this little flame of a boy is back to blossoming as he had been.

We were blessed to have Timothy sing and dance with his little friend at the JSK Thanksgiving time last week. He is a living miracle. In the midst of darkness there are lights that shine.