How to tell it is Christmas in Kerala

10) The weather, apparently, gets “really cold.” The temperature drops to almost 70F in the mornings. Brrrr.
9) You get lots of Christmas cake. No Christmas cookies here, my friends. Just good ol’ Christmas cake. Which is a lot like fruitcake.
8) There are carol programs every day. In grand auditoriums, small churches, and even hospitals, people get together and sing songs, dance, perform skits, and Father Christmas sometimes makes an appearance as well.
7) Oh, Father Christmas. He pops up all over the place during this season. Father Christmas, a.k.a. Santa Claus, is white and does not speak Malayalam (his language usually sounds like “rar rar raawr rar rar”). He has someone translate for him. He wears a red suit and still has a big tummy.
6) Kids have to take exams. Every day. For almost two weeks.
5) Christmas cards are given out. They usually feature snow, and are in English. Even though there is no snow here and everyone’s native language is Malayalam.
4) People put up paper stars, and sometimes hang lights inside so they are lit at night.
3) You get a "Christmas friend," which is basically like a Secret Santa. My Christmas friend gave me my gift last night - it was a figurine of a Santa. Very sweet.
2) There are Christmas trees. Christmas trees in Kerala are usually large branches from trees, placed in pots and decorated haphazardly with streamers, balloons and shiny tin balls.
1) There is no snow here. It isn't cold. I don't often hear the Christmas carols I am used to hearing. There are no Christmas cookies, no Christmas break from school, no sappy Christmas commercials on the T.V., no pine or cinnamon scent. So, lastly, for me to be able to tell that Christmas is approaching, I have to look at the calendar.

Why did the chicken cross the road?

While waiting for the bus yesterday, I saw a chicken trying to cross the road. She would run onto the street, skinny little legs flying out like a soldier's legs, holding up that big, heavy ball of a body. And inevitably, a car would come, or a truck, or a motorcycle, and she would turn herself around and dash back to where she had started. Eventually, she made it to the other side of the street - and she immediately turned around and ran back. For no reason. There were no cars, or trucks, or motorcycles. So why did the chicken cross the road? Not to get to the other side, that's for sure. However, I have two new hypotheses:
1) The chicken got a thrill out of trying to escape the traffic. She was a risk seeker.
2) She was chasing a bug.

Also, Christmas decorations are starting to go up in Mandiram. Paper stars, decorated with bright colors, are hanging up in buildings all over the place. The other night, on our way to dinner, I noticed that some of the girls had stopped to look at a tree. When I looked, there were two paper stars in it, lit from within. They glowed in the tree alongside a strand of multi-colored fading lights. Stars and lights up in a tree. It was really, really cool. And for some reason, it really, really started to feel like Christmas.

Sukamano?

One of the first phrases that I picked up in Kerala was "Sukamano?" It means "How are you?" or, more accurately, "Are you well?" Keralites are not much for polite conversation - hellos and how are yous are usually skipped entirely, and conversations move directly into meatier topics. My American self still has trouble dealing with this (I like to blame it on the language barrier). So, even though I get made fun of, I still commonly as people "Sukamano?"

Yesterday, Lizzy Kochamma, one of the women who works in the kitchen at Mandiram, was admitted to the hospital. I went to visit her. She seemed to be doing well. She sat up in bed, smiled. And of course, I had to ask, "Sukamano?" Which, acutally, in this situation, makes more sense to ask. "Sukamane," she responded, smiling at my eternally asked question. "I am well." I asked her if she had any pain - only a little. I saw her food sitting on her desk, asked her about the food. We had a short, choppy conversation, and then I left. As I was returning, the Ammachee at the orphanage asked me about Lizzy Kochamma. "Ummm...," I started, "well... Sukamane!" She's well, I said. And Ammachee laughed. I think, in that moment, she realized the silliness of me going to visit people in the hospital, when we speak very little of the same language. And the silliness of me asking that same question, over and over. But I was able to continue in my bad Malayalam: "Vedena coriche. Itichoo." - Only a little pain. She was sitting up. And then I smiled big, emphasizing the smile with my hands. "She was smiling," I said. And Ammachee looked relieved. "Ahh, sukamane, sukamane," she said. She is well, she really is well.

Malayalam has been one of my greatest hurdles since coming here. My job isn't really a job; I am here to get to know the people living at Mandiram. It is difficult to get to know others without a common language. The first month was utterly frustrating. All I could ask, really, was "Sukamano?" Sukamano is still my stand-by, but I'm improving. I know more than that. Conversations with non-English speakers still mainly consist of staring at each other, waiting for someone to say something... but I can go past sukamano now. Sometimes, I feel like I should speak better Malayalam by now. Other times, I impress myself. "When you go back to America," everyone tells me, "you will forget Malayalam." True. But if I get to know the men and women at Mandiram better, it will not have been a waste to learn.