The Foot Callus Scrubber Rock

A while back I was taken on a night journey to behind the laundry room. My job was to hold the ‘torch’ (flashlight) for whatever the mystery activity was going to be. The wardens, other people my age who live and work in this community, slipped off their shoes—not a difficult feat, for feet (Yes! Feet feat) must always be bare when inside, and thus sandals are always worn. They directed me to shine the light on a water spigot near to the ground, where they started soaping up their feet. Then they just started rubbing their soles all over a big rock that was hanging out in the area. Then it dawned on me why there was just such a rock hanging out in my ‘toilet’ (bathroom, which includes my shower, ‘closet,’ and sink with no separation). This was the foot callus scrubber rock. Obviously after witnessing the wardens scrubbing, I had to give it a try. You sure do get some nice calluses when you are always either barefoot or in sandals, and man did it feel good scouring those repositories of dead skin! Only afterward was I reminded of why it might be a good thing to keep that buildup around. Please allow a digression.

-A couple of months ago, at our second volunteer retreat, we visited a Hindu temple around noontime. Now, as the temple grounds are sacred spaces, footwear must be removed. We slipped off our sandals and had to suppress a collective howl. Walking through fire and walking across burning coals are rites of passage for the strong and fearless in some cultures. I challenge anybody who has passed these tests to try out the temple grounds at noontime. Ok, I challenge any foreigners to try out the temple grounds at noontime, because the locals seemed to have no problems whatsoever. Anyways, we hugged the buildings once inside, the only shade available, and speed-pranced from point A to point B when there were no buildings to be had. (I will digress within this digression. Coupled with the spectacle of our pain for all the devotees present, Cameron and I ended up giving them another show. Our guide suggested that we check out the inner sanctuary, for which men must go shirtless. All gung ho, we stripped off our upper garments only to hear a bell ring signaling the closing of the sanctuary. So, to the onlookers we were bare for no reason. And were there ever onlookers. We happened to be right in front of a large group of women congregated for a wedding. We were more interesting than the wedding. I think foul play was involved on the part of our guide!) Long story short, our feet burned for weeks afterwards, and I cannot imagine what would have happened if we had no calluses at the time.
*End digression*

Now, for the life lesson about the foot callus scrubber rock. After I have been in one place for some time, the original splendor seems to dull. The problem, though, is that nothing really changes about the place. Instead, it is I who is changing. I might start viewing things that were previously absolutely novel and awe-inspiring as commonplace, and therefore unexciting. I might finally understand why many think living in community is difficult, being with the same people all the time without pause or separation. I might notice problems in social and organizational structure that did not strike me as so before. I might realize that the longer I am at a place, the more implicit responsibility I have as an integral part of the community—no more guilt-free passes to just do nothing some days. I might tend to focus on how much time we have to go rather than how much wonderful time we have already spent here. As I said before, these are all instances of the changing self rather than the changing place. Indeed, it is as though I build up these—to use a phrase again that I rather enjoy—repositories of dead skin around myself that shield me from the heat. Only, in this case the heat is good, the heat is life-giving. I do not want to be impervious to this heat, the reality of the place and experience as it has always been, but maybe viewed through more mature and reflective eyes.

The first several days after our Christmas holiday, my calluses reached their thickest point. Upon returning to the community after being away for some time, all of the aforementioned experiences walloped me at once. My immediate response was to delve deeper into myself and hide behind the shield of hard skin. Mercifully and wonderfully, though, that foot callus scrubber rock just appears out of nowhere, as it did that fateful night behind the laundry room. This time it is necessary for a soul scrubbing rather than a sole scrubbing, though. The rock comes to me in the form of a mental patient who does incredible artwork in his hospital cell with cheap pastels and gives me several prints and a hug just for bothering to talk to him. The rock comes as a group of kids who start yelling “Sayip! Sayip! (“White man! White man!)” and following me around as I walk through a part of the neighborhood that I had never ventured into before. The rock shows up as the wardens who invite me over for sleepovers every night of the week. The rock is an Ammachee who offers to teach me Hindi even though I am still very much struggling through Malayalam.

The layers start to fall.

I feel the heat.

Still, I cannot caution you enough. Use caution if you ever find yourself at a temple near the town of Maroman, Kerala, at noon.