By Kate Taylor

In my travels through India, I have talked to women from many different backgrounds, professions and social positions. Each has a unique life story, hopes and dreams of her own and possibilities within her reach.

In slum communities and rural villages, girl babies are often murdered simply because they are born female. These silent millions will never have lives or stories to tell.

In another part of the country, young girls have little hope of growing to womanhood without getting trapped in prostitution or trafficked far from home.

In Mumbai, one 15-year-old I met is studying English in her high school. She has dreams of becoming an astronaut.

Throughout the country, some women face barriers in their professions or home lives. Not because of their abilities, but because of their gender.

Still other women I met are working on PhDs at a top university. They have exciting prospects and look forward to long and illustrious careers.

Ultimately, these disparities come down to the brokenness of the world we live in. Life is not fair. And, equality sometimes feels more like a daydream than a reality.

While some women are held hostage, prisoners in their own lives or in their own minds, others find freedom without limits. I am earning my college degree and spending my summer traveling through Asia while others will never get to go to first grade or travel more than a few miles from their birthplace.

In this world, discrimination and inequality will always exist in one form or another. Whether we hate people because of the color of their skin, fear them because of a disability or look down on them because of their gender, justice is always a fight.

Praise God that in Christ we do not have to fight for equality. In Christ, we are given everlasting hope and a bright future.

As my travels in South Asia come to an end, I am struck, yet again, with a reminder that all people need Christ. Here in India, people need Christ. Back home, people need Christ. Everywhere we go, we should live lives that depict Christ.

Kate Taylor is a student at Union University, serving among South Asian peoples.

By Miriam Snodell

So, it may be a well known fact that Indian people bobble their heads. But does anybody really know why, how, or how to interpret? I know I didn’t. But now that I have spent a significant amount of weeks observing and occasionally trying The Bobble, I feel that I am properly equipped to educate my fellow non-Indians on the art.

The classic head bobble
I am completely at a loss as to the “how” on this. I believe Indians develop a completely different set of muscles, because (when performed correctly), it appears that the head moves independently of the neck. You may think it’s impossible, but that’s only until you see it in action. My American version of it has developed into a cross between a pathetic bobble and a head shake. Kate used to move her shoulders when attempting this, but has rectified her error since she learned that this looks a bit like she’s having a seizure. This bobble usually means yes, and usually has words accompanying it (though, not always). This answer-bobble probably has some sort of emotion attached to it, such as “Yes, I did enjoy hanging out with you, and I’m glad you’re my friend.” Be prepared to interpret a wordless bobble that could contain several paragraphs of emotionally loaded information. You will be judged a little bit for not having immediate understanding, just be ready for it.

The almost indiscernible side weave
This one is often the answer to a simple and emotionless question- such as price negotiations or driving directions. It’s a bit like a sideways head twitch, except, imagine it less spastic than I know you are. It’s very casual, performed almost like a teenage boy shaking too-long hair out of his face. At first glance, one may think it is a nonverbal “no,” but this is only because the Indian doing it has a completely indifferent or doubtful look on their face. Don’t let this throw you off. Also, be prepared to look for this bob without any other clues- such as affirming words. The bob is sometimes difficult to perceive because of the minuteness of the head swipe. And if you somehow repeat your question or ask for a confirming reply, prepare to be looked at like a crazy person.

The head bob that means “no.”
It can look exactly like either of the two “yes” bobbles. Facial expressions and words can be the same or different than the “yes” bobbles. Try to look for context clues.

Happy interpreting!

Miriam Snodell is a student at Union University, serving among South Asian peoples with her summer.

by Miriam Snodell

Indian food is often deceptively spicy.

“How spicy is this?” I ask suspiciously, prodding an item on the menu with my forefinger.

“Oh, not too spicy madam,” replies my Indian server, bobbling his head affirmingly.

“Just a little bit of spice?” I confirm, before allowing him to walk away with my order.

He jerks his head casually to the side in that ambiguous bobble before heading back to the kitchens.

It is only a few minutes before he returns with my food, beautifully cooked and exotically aromatic. I inspect my right hand for its cleanliness, before deciding my best utensil is ready to get food to my mouth.

The first bite is pleasant. Hot chicken covered with unknown spices melts away in my mouth. A hint of spiciness lingers in my mouth after the swallow, serving to remind me of what country I’m in. But it’s not unpleasantly spicy, so I lift my coke in a wordless toast to my honest waiter.

The second swallow delivers a bit more lingering heat. Hm. It seems that the spiciness compounds a bit, bite by bite.

The sixth bite has tears welling up in the corners of my eyes, which I heroically attempt to smother. Nonchalantly, I take a swig from my coke, hoping to quench the fire without anybody noticing my weakness.

Bite number eleven has me openly crying. People at nearby tables interrupt their dining experience to peer curiously at the foreigner with tears running down her face, gulping coke as if her life depended on it.

As the essentially useless soft drink disappears from the bottle, I wonder frantically if there’s some sort of spicy ingredient present in the liquid designed to inhibit the cooling receptors in the mouth.

Minutes later, a befuddled waiter delivers a sweet lassi to my table, which I try not to snatch prematurely from his hands.

“Chicken not very spicy, madam,” he says, eying the dried tears on my cheeks, as I slurp the cooling yogurt drink thankfully.

I shake my head wonderingly. Not very spicy? I have just accepted that there are some cultural experiences I cannot experience fully.

Miriam Snodell is a student at Union University, serving among South Asian peoples.

by Kate Taylor

Within the mega-cities of the second most populous nation in the world, there are many smaller communities where the doors to small homes stay open for most of the day and people know their neighbors. Miriam and I visited one of these low-income neighborhoods in Mumbai and spent time meeting people and taking photos. We stepped into their lives for a few hours and were blessed by the experience. It is not hard to love the people of India when you take the time to get to know them and you realize that, despite language barriers and cultural differences, we are all just people with hopes and dreams and a longing for God.

Kate Taylor is a student at Union University, serving among South Asian peoples with her summer.

by Miriam Snodell

Dupatta [doo-pah-tuh]: noun: A lightweight scarf worn by many Indian women to symbolize its translated meaning, virtue.

A Dupatta can be…
…worn for its intended use.
…a flimsy and relatively ineffective umbrella.
…a hand towel, for when the public bathroom has run out (or never had any in the first place).
…flung over one shoulder and treated as a superhero cape.
…pulled over the face entirely, in order to preserve your secret identity.
…a lousy jump rope.
…a teeny-tiny blanket.
…a cover for sneaking food into the movie theatre.
…flowy fairy wings.
…a babushka bonnet.
…a makeshift sling for a broken arm (though I have not tested this theory… yet).
…the catalyst for a three-legged race.
…helpful when Rapunzel’s hair is not quite as long as she needed it to be.
…eaten, when no other options remain.

A girl chases another in a game, trying not to lose her pink dupatta.

Miriam Snodell is a student at Union University, serving among South Asian peoples with her summer.

By Kate Taylor

Chugchugchugchug. Chugchugchugchug. The repetitive sound of the wheels on the tracks drowns out everything except my own thoughts that rattle about in my head like a runaway rail-car.

Chugchugchugchug.

My right hand grasps a metal bar just inside the door and extends, allowing most of my body to hang out the door of the city train.

Chugchugchugchug.

The wind tosses my blonde hair around my face and tugs at the corners of my kurta, an Indian shirt that reaches to my mid-thigh. Chugchugchugchug. I watch the city landscape roll past and consider all the things I have already experienced in my time here in India.

Chugchugchugchug.

I have seen cows wandering the city streets.

I have tasted juicy mangoes of many shapes and colors.

Chugchugchugchug.

I have witnessed a baby girl snatched from the jaws of death. Her birth parents loved her enough to give her life by giving her away. They knew their family could not support another child, especially a girl child in a culture where boys are so preferred. Her adoptive parents saved her life from the tragedy of female infanticide. Because of the love of her two sets of parents and the love of Christ, stronger than death, she is a beautiful child with a bright future.

Chugchugchugchug.

I have heard the incessant honking of hundreds of cars, trucks, motorcycles and other two-, three- and four-wheeled vehicles too eager to wait their turn in traffic.

I have smelled incense burning from many altars to many Hindu gods.

Chugchugchugchug.

I have seen a woman without hope, hurting and broken. Despised because of her profession, this woman, who engages in prostitution to feed her children and support her daily needs, knows nothing of Christ who died for her.

I have wondered who will come, who besides Christ will give his life to save this woman?

Chugchugchugchug.

If He called, would I be willing?

“Here I am, Lord. Send me.”

Kate Taylor is a student at Union University, serving among South Asian peoples with her summer.

by Miriam Snodell

Sometimes when walking down the street,
A strange rank odor my nose does meet.
Feces, smog, and trash, to spare,
The aroma of India in the air.

Pungent and rich, the taste fills my mouth;
I swallow the food, and it starts to head south.
A slow burn caresses the back of my throat,
On fire without water, I’ve been pleasantly smote.

Horns honk and bellow and throw out a tune;
From dusk til dawn, and midnight til noon.
Though I really don’t mind, things sometimes get hairy;
I occasionally want to ask — “Is that absolutely necessary?”

My angry hair whipping all over my face,
The rickshaw accelerates in that everlasting race
I wonder if the engine should be shaking like this;
These adrenaline-producing rides are something I’ll miss.

A million faces fly past my eyes,
A million hungry looks, a million wordless cries.
They don’t have the hope, they need something more.
Colorful clothes disguise a hopeless and hurting core.

A feeling that came from my deep down inside,
An emotion that be described as both deep and wide;
I fell in love with this country, right at trip’s start,
It’s a foregone conclusion: So much for guarding my heart.

Miriam Snodell is a student at Union University, serving among South Asian peoples with her summer.

By Kate Taylor

I cross the street and wade through a crowd of people and parked motor scooters into the entrance of a popular-looking Indian restaurant. An air-conditioned section in the back is cool and quiet. At the table, I scan the menu full of indecipherable combinations of consonants and vowels like aloo chaat and palak paneer. Our Indian friend rattles off orders for all of us and Miriam and I sip on custard-like drinks that taste of caramel and almond.

The food arrives and we swirl the sauce and rice on the plates together with our fingers, devouring spicy red and yellow foods as quickly as our hands can carry it to our mouths. Delicious!

The restaurant manager comes over and, in accented English, asks us about our meal. Apparently satisfied with our enthusiastic replies, he turns away and throws back a “Bon appétit!” over his shoulder.

India is constantly surprising me. Just when I think I have fallen into the rhythm of things, a misplaced beat, like a French phrase, knocks me off like an amateur drummer.

I am easily thrown off by the cows that wander the city streets and the indiscernible head bobbles that could mean yes, no or anything in between. When I try to bobble my head, it comes across more like a squirming two-year-old or the awkward first steps of an African tribal dance. I feel unsure of myself as I traverse the landscape of a culture so removed from anything I have experienced before.

Traveling abroad can be trying, exhausting and uncomfortable but our God is God over all cultures, languages and peoples and it is His desire that every man should hear the Good News. His Word crosses the borders between countries and the barriers of peoples’ hearts because His disciples sacrifice their lives to take it there.

Pray for the lost people of South Asia who are living life without hope in a Living God. What are you willing to sacrifice? How are you going to live your life in order to see all peoples come to Christ?

While India can be exciting, jarring and more than a little confusing at times, I am grateful for the experiences I am having here and for the ways I see God at work.

Kate Taylor is a student at Union University, serving among South Asian peoples with her summer.