Vellore and Randham

(By the way, I have finally added pictures to this and other entries below.)

We arrived in Vellore Thursday at the Sneha Deepam Retreat House, which is run by the order of Foyer Charity of France. Another spare but pleasant place, built like the last one around a square courtyard--with doves and parakeets in cages and flowers to delight.

We doubled up. The room was big, there were screens on the windows and a nice ceiling fan, but no toilet seat, flush, shower, or hot water. It's still several steps away from tent camping, which people do for fun. I think it lends us the illusion that we are ascetics, even if only in a few matters for a short time. The priest, Father Xavier, was white bearded and white robed, very twinkly, like a happy saint.

We dropped our luggage there (that didn’t take me very long, no suitcase yet) and went on to Randham, a little village where Father Nelson was priest seven years. We had lunch in the parish house with the priest and two assistants from the seminary. About 120 families of Catholics live there, and the other 2/3 of the town is Hindu.

We went to visit the school Father Nelson had started, 500 students from all around, Hindu and Christian. A special program had been planned for us. Like the two retreat houses, the school was built around a square courtyard, with a veranda all around the inside, virtually doubling the size of the classrooms behind it. The children were already sitting on the concrete all around the veranda, and we were seated in the shade in a central platform in the plastic chairs of honor. The sun scorches, but the breeze seems always to be blowing and the shade is quite comfortable.

I’m not a fan of plastic, and on balance I don’t think the western world has done the developing world any favor by introducing billboards, disposable junk, and trash issues like they never had before and can't cope with now. On the other hand, where space and funds are limited and humans do most of the toting, good use is made of stackable plastic chairs, stools, buckets, etc. There are even plastic water carrying urns, designed just like the heavy brass ones of old (still in use in Kathmandu, for example), the kind you balance on the hip and sling your elbow around. They come in any color you can paint your home or business, i.e., any color at all.





The carefully planned and well-rehearsed program consisted mostly of children of all ages performing wonderful Indian dances, including an interesting rendition of Jingle Bells (I think to remind us of home--seven degrees and snowing, right?). They were extremely impressive, not to mention adorable. Even the littlest ones had memorized hundreds of steps and movements, and danced with no hesitation or coaching. And they smiled and smiled as they danced, knowing they were stars doing what they love to do. It gives some perspective to the ubiquity and skill of dancing in Bollywood movies. Besides the dances there was also a karate exhibition with some visually impressive poses.


We were absolutely treated like royalty, and all because of Father Nelson, who had done so much for the villagers. (He is now serving in Birmingham, Alabama, because of the shortage of priests in the U.S., but he said he misses being in his home country, where he could do so much more good. The fact that he is serving in America because of a lack of American priests, and that he can't do as much good there is really worth a lot of pondering, though I don't know if it is a commentary on the state of the U.S. or the state of the church in the U.S., or both. It just raises questions.) Being completely undeserving recipients of this outpouring of favor was very humbling. We were the American companions of an Indian priest of rock star stature and all we had done was show up, not even knowing the day before where we were going, ignorant of the care and time that had gone into their planning for the last month. Each of us ceremonially received a beautiful shawl. There were several speeches. Afterward came the extremely fun part, when we were encouraged to visit the various classrooms and talk to the children, who all wanted to practice their English.



Afterwards Father Nelson wanted to take us to see a milk project the parish had started. They loan poor families the money ($125) to buy a cow, and when the cow calves and begins to produce milk, a cooperative buys it from the farmer, coming around to measure and collect it twice a day, and pays the farmer for the milk, taking out some to pay back the loan. When the loan is paid, the cow and any calves belong to the farmer, who then has a source of income. It’s like Heifer Project. It was great to see it in action up close and personal with the cows. I even got sprayed with a little milk.

We walked around the village and visited with families there, often in their homes. Many are extremely poor. The huts are made of mud, which is stacked a foot at a time, dried, and then built up some more. The floors are also of dried mud. The roofs are made of layers of palm leaves woven together, topped with what is left of the sugar cane stalks after harvesting, and then all tied down. One roof lasts three years and then must be replaced. The roof eaves are about three feet from the ground—-you have to stoop under them. But this creates a cool, breezy outdoor space—-to sit on in front, to cook under in back. The house door itself is full height. We sat in one room that was combination bedroom, living room, and dining room. It had a bed, a mat, a small wall shelf with metal dishes, and a TV on a stand.

Father Nelson told us many stories of people in the village—of girls too poor to come up with dowries so they could marry, of young deaths, of widows raising many children. Life there seems very tough, especially for those born into the lower castes (and I think we saw all castes in the village, from the richest to the poorest, or at least their homes). He said the church attracts many of the poorer people and lower castes. There had been lots of sad deaths recently and he especially felt his heart tugged by the people’s needs.



Throughout the village, any American who showed interest in the people around them (and we all did) was mobbed. The children again wanted to practice their English: “Good evening. How are you? What is your name?” I asked some of them to teach me some Tamil, their language (we are in the state of Tamil Nadu now), which they were happy to do so long as they reserved the right to laugh at everything I tried to say. Some of the older people wanted to bless and be blessed. Everyone enjoyed having their picture taken. Father Nelson bought flowers from a vendor to put in our hair, and the women helped us arrange them. The interaction was very intense.


Every time we started for the van, someone else wanted to invite us in to give us food and drink they could hardly afford. Their hospitality was gracious and graceful. All of the few poor places I have ever been in the world, Palestine and Haiti and Nepal and now India, and every other place I have ever heard about, in Africa, Latin America, and Southeast Asia—-all but pockets of Europe and the U.S.—-are characterized by both material lack, with the tragedies that ensue, and shocking amounts of human richness, faith, talent, love, and warmth—-and often much joy. It’s not that poverty makes one happy. Being able to achieve family and economic stability seems critical. But it appears wealth can hurt people’s spirits as much as poverty does. Only wealth may help us avoid seeing it, because we think it ought to make us happy, and leaves us wondering what is wrong with us that happiness is so elusive.