The light overhead is yellow, white

December 20th, 2011. I say to myself, I don't write because I'm busy, because I'm learning of new cultures from Hyatt, the beautiful Saudi woman who chooses to wear color, because I'm waiting to get an objective view of India. I don't write because Nick and Sally and Jeff are here, and now because they are gone, and because I miss them and I don't write because how can I start, what stories can I tell? I can talk of the sunrise over the Himalayas, the sunset too, and I can talk of illuminated white temples, glittering water a shimmering lake reflecting bowed men in turbans and clean children, and of the mall with a red Christmas tree glowing four stories high, frantic shoppers spending thousands and corny music blasting.
But I can write of the hundreds of poor that weave between cars selling blankets and fake roses and asking me, only me, for money. I could write of the thousands of stray dogs that curl in the dust and sleep. I could write of drivers wrapped in ripped jackets, threadbare scarves, fingerless gloves, cold air tumbling through the cracks in the windshield and open walls. 
I painted nails, red the color most requested by my patients. I take tea, and see hundreds of people sitting outside the front of the center, children standing, adults quiet mostly, the sisters gathering in a huddle on the stone porch. They say, it's the Christmas pageant, will you sing a song? I try to remember the words of carols, and this time last year I knew all words, but I haven't felt cheer, and so I say, I know one, and only the first verse. 
They pray, and they sing, loudly and off tune, the words in Hindi and the songs are unfamiliar, and all eyes are on me, as always, even though I stand behind a think white column, hiding. The priest in residence tells the story of the annunciation, I catch tiny glimpses through English words dropped. And he says, come. I stand in front of the microphone, and it's too short, and all are quiet, and I sing Silent Night, the first verse, because it's all I can remember, and I am not scared because these are people I have no reason to be nervous in front of, and still, my voice shakes a little. I back away, saying thank you.
Would you like to say a few words? I will translate after. And so I say,
Thank you for letting me come to your beautiful country, and for opening your hearts to me, especially over Christmas time. It's been very hard being away from my family, and I don't think I would have been able to be here without the love and support that the people here have shown to me. So thank you, donyvad, and I wish everyone a merry, merry Christmas. 
And the priest translated, and a woman in front started crying and they all clapped, and  felt more joy than I have in weeks.
We handed out food, sacks of rice, backs of flour and tea and lentils and blankets, to all. They are the poorest of the poor, one of the sisters told me. I wished each a merry Christmas, and some didn't know how to respond, and some just said thank you, some didn't meet my eye, mostly the men, and a few who knew, said Merry Christmas, God bless you, God bless you. the sun was slanted in the sky but shining through the dirty trees, and I took off my jacket because I felt warmth.