Sight, sounds, smells of India

By ROSIE KORFANT

Since visiting India over 25 years ago, I knew I wanted to return. Two years ago, God began “niggling” at my spirit to do just that; not just to visit as I had done in the past, but for a bona fide mission trip. Earlier this year, as I watched our church service, The Family Church at Christian Retreat in Bradenton, I was moved when Pastor Phil Derstine mentioned he was planning a trip to India later in the year. I immediately texted him to let him know that, as a long-time member of the church, I’d like to be part of the mission team.

Our team consisted of me, Pastor Phil, and Chris and Esther Berry who own and manage eight Esther Schools in Bradenton, Kissimmee, Clearwater and Panama. They wanted to investigate the possibility of God leading them to open a school in India. The Esther Schools are for special-needs children from K-12th grade.

Funny, though I knew I was to join the team, I had no special “calling” to do anything as grandiose as the Berrys’ vision for a new school. I quickly learned, as Pastor Phil called on me to speak to crowds of folks attending each of the services, my gift was to encourage and to share joy. Wow, that was a simple task. I could do that. Often during that week I stood before hundreds  with my interpreter of the Telugu language, and told them “The joy of the Lord is my strength,” a passage of scripture in Nehemiah 8:10. That Word declares that we all can overcome any hardship; any poverty, any disability, anything at all.

On the trip to India our first stop was Dubai, a city in the United Arab Emirates, where we spent time with the founders of the Telugu Gospel Church in Abu Dhabi another city in the UAE. We happened to arrive in the country on the very day of their 45th anniversary as a nation known as National Day. We celebrated  with the country by visiting the largest building in the world, the Burj Khalifa, standing as tall as two Empire State buildings on top of one another.

The next day we were in India and the guests of honor at the first graduating class of eight from the Bible College of Telugu Gospel Church, which is an offshoot of The Family Church Institute of Ministry (IOM) in Bradenton. There were 700 in attendance for the graduation ceremony. Pastors Sisir and Esther Kumar taught each of the many qualifying classes. Flower garlands were the order of the day — every church, every day, every meeting and every official function.

On to Razole, a village in Andhra Pradeck State, where a young girl named “Mary,” had an interesting story. Inasmuch as she didn’t know her “real” name or her birthday, our mission team chose Dec. 5 for her birthday. We celebrated with a party, cake and gifts, none of which she had ever enjoyed before. She even chose her own age: 16.

I met my “guardian angel,” Michael. His role was to assist me up and down those mountainous crumbling cement steps, which we usually trod in the dark. He also helped me jump over tree roots and cobblestones, eventually arriving at our destination safely. He stood all of 5-feet-tall.

Pastor Sharath and his wife, Shanti, prayed over a chicken sitting on the steps of the altar when we arrived for church service. I noticed it when I arrived; remarking how quaint that a chicken was sitting on the steps, never knowing it was the sacrificial chicken and was to be served later for our supper.

Color, sound and smell was everywhere: Hindu temples, saris, flowers, jewelry, the incessant vehicle honking  and the choking smell of morning smoke spiraling in various places where the previous day’s rubbish was being burned in neighboring homes and businesses.

The morning crow of the rooster awakened me and announced the day’s beginning first at 4 a.m., with a final announcement at 7 a.m. by a loud public address system call to Hindu prayer with wailing music.

The streets were filled with cars, auto rickshaws, tractors with attached wagons, motorcycles, various trucks, bicycles, pedestrians, (with none assured right-of-way) and animals all vying for the same small strip of roadway. There were the sounds of honking horns at most every turn.

Every curve in the road, every intersection (most without signage) deserved a honk or two. Sometimes three honks if there was a possibility of a pedestrian inadvertently stepping off a curb into the midst of the roadway. If the driver anticipated anyone darting between trees or shrubs to risk running across the road, there was a series of “secret code” honks.

There was unusual fare at every meal, which made for an adventurous stomach. Toothbrushing was tricky since toothbrushes shouldn’t be rinsed with local water. So you try it, conserve bottled water, rinse the brush and rinse the teeth and save a last gulp to assuage thirst before bedtime.

Transportation?  Motorcycles driven by fathers with a child in front of him and one more child behind him and mother. Picture four on a cycle. Then there’s the three-passenger cycle with a child between mom and dad. And, finally, the “date bike” with a guy driving a girl in a flowing sari sitting “side saddle” bouncing along pothole-filled streets with “speed bumps” the size of a street curb. The darkness of the night was broken with an occasional “street lamp” consisting of a single light bulb mounted on a pole at randomly spaced intervals.

The women at the side of the rivers and streams had their daily chores of washing and hanging clothes on lines strung between trees or baking in the sun over palm fronds.

There were colorful, sparkling saris, somehow always clean looking, though the wearer walked on dirt paths or rode side saddle on a motor bike to arrive at the destination. Henna tattoos decorated otherwise naked body spaces.

Cows roamed the streets along with pigs, goats and alley dogs, each in search of daily rations. Other cows stood peacefully at busy roundabouts oblivious to any danger or notion of becoming an impediment to speeding traffic going around them.

The women sat in the dirt tending their meal-time cooking duties at open fires. Men in full business attire stared aimlessly at agricultural fields as the world screeched by. Children of all ages walked or ran without shoes on dirt-covered walkways and areas that served as play yards.

Discarded newspapers were piled high on the heads of women hoping to use them for warmth or to sell at the local markets for added bedding, therein making a few rupees on which to survive another day.

The smiles were ever present on faces with or without teeth in both young and old. The light in the children’s eyes was so bright only their gleaming smiles outshone them.

Most of the churches grew from thatched huts to brick and mortar buildings step by step, taking years of commitment, faith and funds. We trooped up and down stairs — always sans hand railings — to second floors which held the promise of additional dorm housing for an orphanage or visions of church expansion.

Pastor Shravan and his wife, Sandhya hosted a ribbon-cutting and dedication of the new wing at the Miracle Children’s Home in Kadali another village in Andhra Pradesh, India. It left me regaling with laughter. I cut the ribbon for the kitchen and I don’t even cook. Outdoor sinks were installed by the kitchen door, teaching the children a little more about hygiene, which was a new learning experience for them.

Before I went to India, I had “adopted” a little girl named Jennifer. I was able to meet my petite, 6-year-old “adoptee” in person and was shocked that she never smiled. As we delivered toys and played crafts with the children, Jennifer just kept looking at me with those doleful, sad, little eyes. She probably had seen so many traumas in her young life that she didn’t quite know how to handle any happy moments. We gave each little girl a 2-foot-tall Barbie doll; while the little boys each were given a large truck of varying types. The whole process sent shivers of joy up my spine — except when looking at little Jennifer.

Thankfully, Pastors Shraven and Sandhya were beside us every step of the way; especially in the crowded marketplace of the Rajahmundry “Mall” where fast and furious hawking was prevalent. In fact, Pastor Phil mimicked working on the Stock Market floor flailing his arms and crowing with the vendors who were selling their wares and stomping on top of piles of colorful saris. It was a sight to behold.

There are no “restrooms” in India, only “toilets.” A peek inside a toilet shocks the Western mind; first check for toilet paper — there is none, but usually there is a hose spray nearby for cleansing. This often leaves the toilet floors wet or muddy. Again, use your imagination — ladies with flowing saris . . . okay, so back to the aforementioned cleansing hose. At one of many airports I decided to try the hose method. Wrong choice. I ended up seated for a lengthy plane ride with a soggy bottom.

It was 44 hours of travel back to the good ol’ U.S.A.; 22 in the air and only 9,183 miles from home. (Yes, you’ve got that right: 18,366 miles round trip.) The joyful part is that our team knew in our hearts God had sent us on the most miraculous adventure of our lives (to date).