Ni

I've said it before and I'll say it again: Malayalam is a very complicated language. Sometimes, it takes about 100 syllables to say something seemingly simple. Other times, a lot can be said in one syllable.

One of my closest friends here is Liji, who lives with and tutors the young girls at Balika Mandiram. She had seemed very upset one night, and when I asked her about it the next morning, she explained. People had been calling her "ni." In Malayalam, "ni" means "you" in a very informal way. I silently thanked my Malayalam teacher for telling me to call everyone "ningal," which is a more formal way of saying "you," and asked Liji more about the problem. "Ni," she explained, isn't just informal. It's a way of asserting your superiority over someone else. By calling her "ni," these people have been telling her "You're just the hired help, and I can treat you however I want and call you whatever I want." The day before, some people had yelled at Liji (and also at her sister, who works at the nearby hospital) for things that neither of them had any control over, calling them "ni" in the process. The problem, though, is that so many people have been calling Liji "ni." The yelling from the night before was just the last straw. As she spoke, there were tears in her eyes.

A lot can be said in just one syllable.

In Spanish, there are two forms of "you." "Tu" is the informal, "usted" the formal. When I was in Spain, our teachers cautioned us in our usage of these words. Many people doesn't like being called "usted" anymore, because it connotes a sense of distance and a lack of friendship. We were told just to use it with the elderly. But after seeing the look on my host grandfather's face the first time I called him "usted," I used the informal "tu" on everyone.

In Kerala, though, "ni" does not connote friendship and closeness. Friends are to be revered, to be upheld and loved. Using "ni" does not do that.

In Malayalam, Liji told me, it is best to just call everyone by their name.

Rain, Rain, (Don't) Go Away

Last week, the monsoon rains came to Kerala. And after drenching us in delicious coolness for two and a half days, they left as suddenly as they had arrived.

My advisor told me that the monsoon got turned around and ended up in Oman. My neighbors told me that it got held up by something in the Arabian Sea (no one knows what that something is). The weather people keep promising that it will arrive tomorrow. All I know is - I WANT THE MONSOON BACK!

One evening after the monsoon rains, I was sitting outside on the porch with some of the young girls. Leya-kutty came outside, humming a little tune to herself. She walked up to a flower bush and gave it a big, wet hug, then picked up a leafy stick nearby. She carried it over to the porch and started planting it in a pile of gravel, all the while singing a hymn to herself. She was so obviously pleased with life at that moment. We all were! We were outside, and we weren't sweating. The air was cool, the sun was low, and everyone was getting along. Life just seemed so perfectly pleasant.

And of course, there's the practicality of needing water. India, for the most part, is very dry. Kerala is lucky to get two monsoon seasons, but the state still has to be careful about its water consumption. Wells have been dry for months here. The rains don't just make life more pleasant; they are life-giving!

Yesterday, it rained a little bit. Today, it sprinkled some more. Maybe tomorrow... torrential downpour?

Northern India Pictures`

Now that I'm back from our tour - and am FINALLY able to post! - I thought I'd share some photos with you.

Varanasi

Napping at the Taj Mahal
A Monk Debate in Dharamsala
Me in Jodhpur

Andy, and his cow friend, at the beach in Goa