The Masked Avengers

Why should I worry about a thing with these stalwart, formidable, superpowers around to protect me? Dang, if they just weren't so cute, they would be scarier. But they will do in a pinch.

Construction of a "Yoga and Meditation" center is going on just outside my window. It's about the size of a comfortable yurt.  It has a metal roof, which means that for ten months of the year it's going to be so hot in there, you will basically bake your brains while you're meditating. That probably WILL rearrange your negative thought patterns.

The workers are interesting. I'm pretty sure they spend most of their day talking about women. This is the rhythm of the work: rev up a circular saw, pound constantly and angrily on steel pipes all day, yell obscenities in Tamil, hawk and spit all day, laugh lasciviously, cough constantly, repeat. I'm not sure what they are doing with the circular saw. The building is cement and brick. But then I'm no authority on building yurts. I'm pretty sure their coughs are tubercular in nature and that's not very funny. Coughs like that have an unmistakable chronically sick, "never going away" sound. I hear it in some of the children, too.

 It's starting to heat up here in India. It's a kind of heat that makes Houston in the dead of summer look like Vail, Colorado. The Indians here are finally beginning to take off their ear muffs. 70 degree temperatures in the early mornings are not for the faint of heart.

It's been an exciting couple of days here at the Ashram. First, the 'fire marshalls' came yesterday. They arrived in full military uniforms with nary a firesuit in sight. They marched crisply behind a Desoto Fire Truck that stopped just milliseconds before mowing down a row of suddenly quite attentive children. Then they stacked some palm fronds and started a fire. I thought we were going to have s'mores there for a second, but nope. The palm fronds were supposed to be a grass hut. It was indeedy quite the demonstration. The 'grass hut' was gone about as fast as a dried out Christmas tree and the whole thing was pretty impressive.Most of the children live in grass huts when they're not here at the Ashram, so the speedy demise of the palm frond hut was not a lesson wasted.

Then we had a 'track meet'. Try to imagine girls performing the high jump in long pants, covered by a long dress and with a long scarf tied around their necks. They cleared the bar every time until it got impossibly high and I doubt anyone, even in the states, could have cleared it. I couldn't help but think that the track coaches in America need to seriously recruit in India. These kids RUN like greased lightning and they are so fun to watch. They are inherently graceful and they run like gazelles. In long pants and skirts . . . . . . .and barefoot. No Phil Knight Nikes within a 100 miles of this place. Imagine what these kids could do for a track team in America.

One more thing. In India, the children call everyone Auntie, or Granny. I make my students call me Mrs. Johnson except for one child who isn't even in one of my classes. She has gravitated toward me since the first day I came. Poor thing. She has terrible judgement. Anyway . . . . . . word gets around. Everybody knows they have to call me by my name. As I have pointed out on more than one occasion, I couldn't possibly be their Granny. I'm the wrong color. Okay, where was I? Oh right. Anyway, this little fourth grader with the poor taste in people came up to me today and said, (in perfect English, I might add) "For everyone else, you are Mrs. Johnson, but for me, you are always my Granny." The kid has 'checked' me with her king.

BJ