May means summer in Kerala. This year summer meant a heat index of 105ºF almost every afternoon. It meant that I was always sweating, even when sitting completely still under a ceiling fan. Summer meant returning to an empty school after our trip to north India, and it meant reaching out for work and relationships outside the school that has been my home and workplace for the last year.
[The courtyard at Nicholson School this summer. Only a handful of teachers, myself and the school's two pet dogs stayed at the school for the summer months.]
I thought I would be lonely during May, living with only five older teachers at Nicholson School and going outside the school everyday for my work. I was wrong. During the summer, I
needed the quiet of the empty school because I needed to come home to a quiet place where I could literally stretch out and cool down after spending the day traveling and working in intense tropical heat. (This summer I learned how deep my northern roots go as I longed for one, good, cold Minnesota winter.) I also wasn’t lonely because the relationships I developed through my work outside the school became so rich and important to me. I mostly split my time between two locations: Dharmageri Mandirams, a destitute old-age home, and Bethel Ashram, a community and school administered by monastic sisters of the Church of South India.
Nursery Songs and Wheelchairs Dharmageri Mandirams is a charity run by the Marthoma Church that offers free geriatric care. There are over 100 people living at Mandirams, and almost all of them are from poverty-stricken families. Some have simply been abandoned by children who do not have the financial means to look after their parents or to send them to one of the nicer (and more expensive) care-giving facilities. At Mandirams I witnessed the impacts that deep poverty can have on a life. One woman’s legs were swelled with Elephantiasis, a disfiguring mosquito-born disease that is completely treatable. Another woman could hardly walk because of the now-permanent curve in her spine caused by hard work always done while bending over. One man’s skull was partially caved in from an accident, and many suffered from partial paralysis and/or loss of sight, hearing or speech. When I visited Mandirams, I could not provide any medical assistance to the residents. I could barely communicate with them in my broken Malayalam, since no one spoke more than a few words of English. But I think, maybe, my presence was enough. Many of the elderly residents do not have any visitors. So, I sat with them. I listened. I held the hands of old women who talked to me in Malayalam about their children, their husbands, and their pain. I smiled and asked them simple questions in their own language. I couldn’t cure their physical, mental, and emotional illnesses, but at least I could be with them for a little while.
Last fall some of the students at Nicholson taught me a Malayalam children’s song about a crow. It’s a nursery song on par with “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star,” but it has gotten me a lot of kudos during my time in Kerala. People often get excited that I know any Malayalam, so being able to sing a Malayalam song (even a children’s songs) is an unexpected delight for most people. Plus, it’s funny to watch the adult foreigner sing a baby song with incorrect pronunciation. Of all the times I’ve sung this children’s song, I think the best was this summer at Dharmageri Mandirams.
One day while visiting the sick ward at Mandirams, I started talking about music with one of the women. We ended up singing songs for each other, while the rest of the ward listened and sometimes chimed in for the Malayalam choruses. The last song I sang was inevitably the nursery song about the crow. By the end of the song everyone was laughing. I’m not sure how often these patients in the sick ward laugh, but at least that afternoon, I was happy to be the cause of some happiness (even if it was partly at my expense due to my strange American pronunciation of Malayalam words.) In that moment, in that small sick ward, I felt connected to these elderly women. Bound together for a moment through shared music and laughter.
Hide-and-Seek at the AshramBethel Ashram is a community that includes a small geriatric care ward, a retirement home for monastic sisters of the Church of South India, and a boarding school. During the summer a handful of girls remained at the Ashram, living in the school boarding. Most of them stayed for the summer because they come from poor or broken families who cannot care for them during the summer months. A few are orphans. My time at Bethel Ashram was almost entirely spent with these girls, who ranged in age from 5 to 17. I especially spent time with the youngest girls, who seemed more interested in playing with me and who were in greater need of affection from an adult figure.
We played. Hide-and-seek was usually the game of choice, but we also played catch and Uno and some circle games. We couldn’t talk much. The youngest girls have barely started learning English, so we had to manage with my inadequate Malayalam. They had trouble explaining new games to me, and when I tried to teach them “Duck, duck, goose” it ended in confusion and chaos with many small children literally running in circles around me. Despite the communication problems, everyone still had a great time. I was happy to be with younger children again, and they were happy to have an adult to play games with. Four of the youngest girls were particularly attached to me and would constantly hold my hand and lead me around the Ashram, pulling me into a hiding place during hide-and-seek or onto their low bench and table (much too small for me) where we shared lunch.
One rainy afternoon, when we had finished lunch and exhausted our hide-and-seek quota for the day, I settled down with a group of the girls to watch a Malayalam movie. (It didn’t matter that I can’t understand the dialogue since in most popular Malayalam cinema the action is pretty self-explanatory.) Within the first fifteen minutes of the movie, I had become a human couch. The youngest girl, Manu*, sat on my lap in order to see past the older girls. Then Asha, a quiet nine-year-old, who had shyly watched some of our morning games without really participating, snuggled up under my right arm. She was followed by Rona, who cuddled up on my left side. In no time at all, I had three girls draped across me. Their artless affection was, I think, sweeter and more touching than any other gift I’ve received in Kerala.
*To protect their privacy, I have changed the names of the girls at Bethel Ashram. Shakespeare and Other Transitions
Two weeks before Nicholson School officially reopened, the 10th and 12th graders, who have government exams next spring, returned for two weeks of extra classes. During those weeks, I taught Shakespeare to the 10th grade class. I was only substituting for their regular English teacher, but I ended up spending two weeks with them teaching
The Merchant of Venice. (The class doesn’t actually read Shakespeare’s play. After all, English is their second, sometimes third, language. Instead they read a simple prose story adapted from the play. The goal is for them to be familiar with the characters and story, while also improving their English language skills.)
Teaching
The Merchant of Venice (even in its abridged prose form) reminded me why I loved being an English major in college, but it also gave me a good transition into the regular school year. Teaching Shakespeare for one hour a day eased me back into the routine of classes, reminding me how to teach for students for whom English is their second language and how to be authoritative
and fun (I hope).
Now the school year has begun in full, and my summer work is complete. I will miss the relationships I built during the hot summer months: the smiles and Malayalam ramblings of my Kerala grandmothers and grandfathers at Mandirams; singing nursery songs and listening to the beautiful rasping voices of the women in the sick ward; the games and laughter and cuddles of the girls at Bethel Ashram.
But I am tumbling back into the school year with renewed enthusiasm after the richness of my summer. I am happy listening to the shouts and laughter of the children that now fills the halls and dormitories. I’m taking time to rediscover my friendships with the returning students and to create new relationships with the many new students and teachers. And as the cooling monsoon rains break over Kerala, I am finding peace in my regular work again.
