Dance Dance Revolution

Because I’m living with two very on-the go nineteen year olds, I found myself at a dance club on a weeknight. They’d been wanting to check out the Indian discotheque scene, so we were directed to a generically posh bar, the equivalent of one of Dallas’ West Village dives. Fancy hors deuvres, young professionals in trendy attire, flat screen TV in the corner showing a New York fashion show—none of these elements were conducive to the kind of dancing I wanted to do, namely bad dancing.
But the night was young and the foreigners were getting restless, so I strapped on my spelunking headlamp that I’d stashed in my jeans pocket. My makeshift strobe light and killer moves, I daresay, got that party started. Even our friend Musto, a self-proclaimed King of Indian Cool, strapped my winking accessory on his head. Just wait, the trend should be hitting the States anytime now.

You Know You’ve Made it When...

You find your picture in the Delhi Times. That’s right, Monday, June 25, 2007, yours truly was pictured with her posse in the local paper. Again, I found myself at a place I hadn’t planned to be (quite common these days); it was supposed to be a free dance concert given by the Ministry of Sound. (Whoever thought one of the five senses needed its own governmental department is a genius!) But before the dancing started, we had to sit through some power point presentation on kidney transplants because everything free comes with a mind-numbing “brought to you by....” Then, some rolly polly man sat on stage with his instrumental gang and chanted jibberish for over an hour. There was a steady stream of anxious escapees, including us. As soon as we burst through the exit doors of freedom, we were greeted by journalists from Delhi Times who wanted to know how we liked the show, if they could take our picture, and what our names were. To which I responded, “Heck no, Sure, and Violet, Gladys, a Darlene—no, not Darling, Dar-leen.” So there we were in print, posing like fools with our alias names underneath, claiming to have enjoyed the show immensely.

Family Reunion

I’ve found them, my long lost Indian family! To all who have been praying that I would find a spiritual family here, thank you. Your prayers were answered, quite miraculously I might add. Last week a young man came in for an interview here at the Village and had sitting beside him a copy of Bonhoffer’s The Cost of Discipleship. My heart leaped. The conversation started there. We had lunch together and before he left I had an invitation to church and promises of prayerful support.
So Sunday morning, this man, Chris and his adorable girlfriend picked me up, and I spent the rest of the day with them, returning home at midnight. I think the happiest moments of my life have been worshipping with brothers and sisters in other countries. Joyful tears sprang up in my eyes at the first note of Blessed be the Name. We spent the day lunching, lounging, and then celebrating one of the youth’s birthday celebrations in his home with homemade food and sing-alongs. And! I ran into a guy at this same church with whom I went to high school! God is so funny, no? It was the best day yet. I left with a phone full of numbers, a new family, and a contented soul.

Under a Monsoon Sky

It’s coming, or so they keep saying. Just wait for the rains. Last night, I climbed atop the flat roof of the Village’s main building and watched the sky pulse with light, each piece of sky seeming to have its own heart beat. A refreshingly cool breeze, warm concrete on my back, and distant rumbles lulled me to sleep. Perhaps the most memorable thing I’ve experienced here. And it had nothing to do with culture.