Where does this water live?

It is 9:30 pm on your Saturday night, but here morning is beginning and the sounds of rickshaw horns are beginning to fill the air. A wave of acceptance (the kind that can only come in India) is beginning to pulsate in my being. It is aided by the many circumstances that one must accept.

Yesterday I could not stop the water in my tap from pouring out onto my bathroom floor unless I held the tap down with a substantial amount of pressure. I tried phoning the office, but it was closed, so I motioned (because I don't speak Gujarati) for the local sub manager to come and look at my tap. He did and said he would be back in ten minutes. (they had already been called three days ago when it started to drip, wildly, and they had ordered a part for it). When I left for the conference on Ears, Nose and Throat, which is happening here on campus, 25 minutes later, there he was, sitting on the bench with the other men who look after the hostel, relaxing and having conversation. No worries, as the water gushed out the tap back in my room and I continued on with my day. All day the water poured out and at class in the afternoon I found one of the men from the office and told him. He smiled and said that yes, the part had been ordered and then we both just smiled that type of accepting smile that one becomes so familiar with in India. Surrender....

At one point in the evening I tried to jam the handle of the dipping cup over the wicked part that was broken; it did slow it down a bit, but still the water rushed onto my tile floor and headed for the drain. ("This water lives in Mombasa", her servant and friend, told Meryl Streep in Out of Africa.) I began to wonder where this water lived and if it was going home. When I went to sleep, I closed my bathroom door to keep the sounds of running water from entering my dreams.

And now, here it is, another day. There is no sound of running water, no dripping tap....AND no water (probably in the whole 'old' hostel). I'm sure that the water has been drained dry from the container on the roof. Again I called the young sub manager, who was again sitting on the same bench with his friends, enjoying the slowly approaching Sunday, and he looked at it, shook his head, and asked me if I wanted water, (in Gujarati). Yes, I smiled. So off he went with my bucket, getting me a bucket of water. Now the problem was not how to 'stop' the water, it is now how to 'get' water...All God's play.

He brings me back a bucket of water and we are all happy. He holds up 9 fingers and let's me know that the man (I think) who comes to fill the water containers on the roof will be here at 9. Okay, no problem. I have water.

I make tea and come out onto my little porch with my cup in my hand; my hanging pajamas that did not dry from yesterday on the clothesline (it's beginning to be winter here) and my computer and read Christine’s birthday card, smile, drink my tea and begin another day of surrendering to what is. There are no more sounds of pouring water in my bathroom now; more space to hear the sounds of birds and rickshaw horns. It's all deliberation. Scott would love it…I wish he could read these…

In the garden, beyond the grills on my porch, that go from top to bottom, are two elegant palms. I can see the first 20 feet of their trunks, some grass, the corner of lotus pond that has three or four lotuses that open their deep pink flowers at the first glow of light (eager flowers that they are; and willing) and some other trees. There are piles of bricks (not too many) thrown down by carpenters from the rooms above (out of sight, out of mind), a yellow hibiscus tree, a volunteer pink impatience and other plants I have yet to learn the names of. This morning two white datura flowers dot the green of the yard, which is about 35 feet across. The whole yard is triangular, widening to the quiet street that runs behind the hostel. The paint and plaster are peeling on the walls of porch, but I have had the young woman who comes to clean my floors (which is included in the price of the room), include in her duties, the washing of the old speckled floor tiles, so this sweet porch is my morning refuge for tea. And now that I have a data stick for connecting to the internet, I can come out here and write letters to friends and family back home, drink tea and get ready to surrender to the day and whatever new challenges present themselves.

Peace…

Phyllis