Vrindavan is an ancient city that is known as the birthplace of Lord Krishna and as the home to a large number of Bengali widows. In some communities, women and “their sins” are believed to be at fault for the death of their husbands. Thus when the husband dies, the widows are thrown out of the home as they are perceived to be a bad omen on the family. Devoting their lives to the adoration of Lord Krishna, is seen as the only way to earn salvation. For this reason, the widows migrate to Vrindavan (some independently and others are brought by their families) to become spiritually wed to Lord Krishna. Their livelihood largely depends on the benevolence of others. Few have access to pensions (300 rupees or US $6.6, a month), but many of them are not aware of such benefits or lose motivation to complete applications due to bureaucratic barriers (sound familiar?). They are often seen begging or singing at temples for 3 rupees a day (US $0.07) and a small serving of rice.
Maitri is heavily involved in restoring the dignity and hope to destitute widows. They do so by managing the Chaitanya Vihar Ashram --a sort of convent that looks very much like a school-- and providing one healthy-midday meal. Our intent in going was to meet the widows and to participate in the distribution of food. While we missed the distribution the first day, Meli and I were fortunate to participate during the second trip.
From the time we entered the ashram, elderly women in saris greeted us “Radhe Radhe!” --a hail of sorts to Lord Krishna. In response, we would place our hands in prayer position, bow our heads, and say “Radhe Rahde!” If there is one thing Meli and I have memorized is the broken phrase “Hindi, nehi. Inglish" (No Hindi, English). After reciting these words, some of them would kindly smile, nod, and continue on their way, while others would continue speaking in Hindi, despite knowing we didn’t understand. The majority of these women are in overall good health, as good as can be expected, but a good number are seriously are ill. One woman approached me, again I recited my broken phrase, but she didn’t seem to mind the language barrier. With sadness in her eyes, she pointed to some dark-red bumps she had on her arms as she repeated some words --it seemed like she was pleading for help. At that moment, I was so mad at myself for not speaking Hindi. I desperately wanted to know what afflicted this frail woman and to offer her an ear and some words of comfort. Instead, I gently caressed her arm and hoped to communicate, non-verbally, that I was sorry for her pain. I don’t know if I was successful, but I made sure to mention it to Anita, my coworker for further inquiry.
Snapping his fingers, Mr. Jo
lly-Sir exclaimed “Go to the other ashram! Go, go!” We followed our coworker out to the van and set out to the “old ashram” (I don’t recall the name). Driving through the narrow and bumpy roads, felt like moving through a labyrinth, while sitting next to a cow, smoking a cigarette of smog, watching a wild monkey documentary, and grooving to a musical mix of honks and hollers. It was wild to witness the spatial awareness of the people.We finally arrived to the ashram, without anyone who spoke English. Uh-oh! Watching the widows set up, Meli and I tried to find the right time to pick up a bucket filled with food, and serve the meal to the widows. After an opening hymn, some women picked up buckets, and we took that as our cue to “get to work.” I asked “Ek? Do?” (One? Two?) as I held the spoon filled with vegetables, hoping to glean what portion I would distribute. “Ek!” Replied the woman. Non-verbals saved us during this experience. The women, who were seated in rows on the thin mat, would point to the place where they wanted each of the entrees served
. With their hands, they would indicate if they wanted more, if they had enough, or if they didn’t want any at all. I learn that “bas” means enough, and “mor” means more. We went around a couple of times, and I noticed that some had a healthy appetite (my kind of women! lol). With a mischievous look on her face, one woman kept asking me for more lol... and of course, I supplied it (can’t oppress the chubbies- you know, the hungry people in our head). As they ate, they chatted loudly, laughed, saved “seats” for each other, and advocated for those who weren’t there by asking for another serving in a container to go.Grateful for their food, the women picked up their plates, walked back to their rooms as they exclaimed “Radhe, Ra
dhe.” I was incredibly moved by these women, who despite the abandonment of their families, laughed, gave thanks, and had the will power to return to the temple to sign just for 3 rupees a day. I am incredibly privileged to bask in their energy.Ps. In route to Vrindavan, I witnessed the first sighting of a cow, camel, elephant, and monkey. All in a days work! :)
Pss. According to Mr. Jolly-Sir my name is Eva... he thinks it easier for him.
