Ganga Jal

….

I have been staring at the keyboard for a good two minutes now. I still can’t seem to think of a word that in itself could fully describe the beauty that is the Holy River Ganges.

I could smell the water, fresh and cool, long before I could see it. We wound around the narrow mountain roads high above the holy river. I craned my neck out as far as I could, staring over the edge, trying to take in what I was seeing… but trees, buses, trucks and dust kept getting in my way. I settled back into the car and watched the trees impatiently.

I thought I couldn’t be happier when I saw the clear river water running over colored stones. The river had followed me, all the way from the Northwest, I was sure of it. It looked just like home. Surrounded by evergreens, just like I remember. I quickly discovered that i was mistaken. I could be happier. I got over my initial excitement and plowed through people toward my tent, I already knew what I was going to where, visualizing where the clothes I needed were in my bag. I was ready to change and jump in the river as soon as I could… but I stopped… because I saw something ever better….

The first clear river I saw was but a tributary… the Ganges lay in front of me, large and powerful. It didn’t really seem to be moving, but I knew it was stronger than I could comprehend. What really stopped me though was the color. It appeared as if a wide road of melted liquid Jade. A light sage green, but milky and soft. I wanted to run to the river and jump in without no sense of self restraint… but I knew better, and I set on track again for my tent.

Waiting for everyone to change clothes was excruciating. I wanted to go in the water! What was taking them so long, I couldn’t understand. But my moment came, and thinking safely we decided to ‘play’ in the tributary rather than the Ganges. Heaven. The water was cool, fresh glacial run off. Aftermath of the snow and ice I had played in only the day before. It rushed through the holes in my monsoon shoes (thank you mom) and chilled my toes. I sat on a rock in the river and looked at nothing in particular. This couldn’t be India. I knew I had to be home. Everything was so familiar.  I was reassured it was… but I still have my doubts.

After a  few photos , some old camp games, and the occasional splashing, we headed back. Today was promising. White water rafting on the river that millions of people pilgrimage to a year. We had some lunch in a canteen tent, put on extra layers of sunscreen and waited for instructions and gear.

A short skinny man in a blue baseball cap and NRS shorts approached us with waivers saying that he was in no way responsible for anything that happened to us on the river… things that make you feel good inside, right? He gave us ill-fitting helmets and faded red life jackets… and no safety instructions. I took it upon myself. I was the only one in our group that had had regular rafting experience. Although I don’t take myself for an expert I figured it was better than nothing and gave it a go. I told them what I knew, and hoped it was enough (it was).

As we trekked down to the river’s edge, the excitement built inside me. The moment I had been waiting for was coming. We had 2 bright red NRS boats and 2 guides. What a crew we were. One student with legitimate rafting experience, another who had rafted once before, a girl on crutches (who refused to miss out on anything even though she was handicapped), and guides who spoke little to no English. Along with this we still have ill-fitted safety gear and some of us possible food poising…. knowing this, we pushed off from shore.

Himalayas: The Abode of Snow

Two nights in Manali was just not enough. The drive there was memorable all in itself. At the bottom the valley was narrow, but green. Sprinkled with small houses of varying bright colors, I watched as we drove by farms, workers, and animals. The mountains on either side towered majestically. Mostly barren, their sides too steep and rugged for growth, their peaks too high to support life, they portrayed the raw earth. On the occasional blessed peak was a snow cap. Above that, majestic clouds, large and soft, but unreal in appearance. Painted with the colors of golden tones, blues, and golden blue, they appeared to be lit from within. As the sun began to lower itself behind the mountains, the clouds changed their attire for evening. Their colors transformed from blue and golden to dusty-bubblegum pink. The white snow caps matched the clouds in a shade of light pink cotton candy.

We stopped at a gas station on the way up the mountain. Two small girls, who only spoke Hindi, approached me, asking my name and where I was from.  I tried to communicate but between my broken Hindi and Washingtonian accent, they didn’t understand.

The air was fresh, crisp, and cool on my skin. I miss that so much. The air down in Bhopal is heavy and hot, and clings to me with an unbreakable will. It reminded me of home, of winter, of my own Cascade mountain range… We spent our full day up in the mountains, playing in the snow, sipping Indian chai, and eating Maggi (Indian Top Ramen). We climbed down the mountain and loaded our tired bodies into the bus. Within 2 minutes, we all got off again because the girls decided they needed a bathroom stop. No bathrooms in the mountains. We all climbed over a snowbank and succeed in getting cold, wet, and snow in our pants and shoes before it was over.

When our time in Manali was through, we headed down the mountains and I kept the window down the entire ride. The icy wind biting my face was wonderful. I stared back at the mountains, and turned and twisted in my seat to keep myself from losing sight of them. Breathtaking. I once again remembered my much loved Cascade mountains back home… and felt suddenly sad. I love my mountains, I love mountains in general… but my Cascade range doesn’t hold a candle to the beauty that the Himalayan mountains portray. I began to worry that I wouldn’t find my own mountains beautiful anymore.

The snow capped tops of the range looked like someone had poured flawless white sand in an arched range of mounds. In many places however, the sides are far too steep for snow to cling to, and a dark steel grey contrasts with the rest of the mountains.

There is one other student from the Northwest that was on our tour group; he lives in Oregon. We both have a love for the outdoors, and more common sense in dressing for it. When we went to the mountains, Jordan could barely contain his excitement at the sight of snow. Digging, playing, rolling, jumping, you name it, he did it. I like the snow, but more than that, I just liked the mountain air. I decided his element was snow. I figured this out when we left Manali and arrived at our next destination, I was brimming with excitement and chomping at the bit to get back outside and explore and play. The north-westerners have elements. Jordan’s is snow. As I looked out on the white water of the Holy Ganga river, I realized my element was water.

Om Mani Padme Hum

Dharamsala. For those of you who aren’t up on your current/historical events, let me catch you up. Awhile back, there was a country called Tibet. For what reason, I am not sure, nor do I really care, Tibet was taken over by China. As a result, thousands of Buddhist Monasteries and ashrams were destroyed and the Tibetan people ran. Most of them came to India. A lot of those who came to India, went to Dharamsala. Dharamsala is a small used-to-be-quiet town  in Northern India. Why this town you may ask? This town was chosen as a new home, or temporary home, for many Tibetan refugees because

A) Their government that has been in exile for (I think) over 40years, is residing there.

B)The most beloved leader and spiritual guide, the Dalai Lama, moved there as well.

Dharamsala was a nice break. from India. Cleaner air, less garbage, quieter people, and a new culture. We spent two nights in Dharamsala and I enjoyed all 3 days equally. The IYE students and I went to the Dalai Lama’s ashram to pray and learn about Buddhism. Afterwards, we spent the day shopping in the local market for Tibetan handicrafts made by the refugees. i think it was the first time in India (and probably the last) that I didn’t bargain for what I was purchasing. I had sympathy. I wanted to help them so badly… but I didn’t know how, so I settled with the first option I saw in front of me: Paying full price…or more.

The day was long, and we were tired, but we decided that night to get up early and go back to the Dalai Lama’s ashram and pray with him and his monks in the morning. I have to be honest… I feel I shouldn’t lie. I didn’t really enjoy it… at all. I sat there, cross legged, like I can’t really do, and winced in pain for 45 minutes before I gave up, stood up, and put my shoes on. Chanting and recitation continued around me in a language I didn’t understand. I enjoyed watching, but sitting and pretending to participate just wasn’t working for me. Plus… I was still sore from the camel.

I guess it’s nice to be able to say I went there, and I prayed with his Holiness… but it didn’t really do anything for me, didn’t give me insight, or help me meditate, or understand anything… it only made me sore. I started walking down the hill back out to the market to pass time while I waited for the others to finish, feeling a little disappointed, and a little left out. It didn’t last long. As I reached the outside of the property, I stepped into the street, and a strong breeze. As a pushed against the wind, enjoying the mountain air on my face, I passed an elder monk in traditional red robes. In the breeze, his outer robe/shawl, got caught in the wind just as I walked past him. I tried to avoid it, but couldn’t, and the robe became tangled in my legs. When I finally untangled myself from his robes, I looked up and said sorry in an unnecessarily embarrassed smile and a timid voice. However, he did not react the same. His face was clam, almost laughing, and he gave me the purest, kindest smile I have ever experienced in my life. It was honest.

I went to Dharamsala, not knowing what to expect, not knowing much about Buddhism. I left not knowing much more than I arrived with. But I remember his smile. I live in a world where whether we admit it or not, is based on material things, impressions, egos, and reputations. He had none of that. Just happiness. Every person is different, and I am not the kind of person who could go up in the mountains and sit and meditate and devote my life to… whatever they devote it to. A search for Nirvana. In addition, I don’t necessarily admire them either, but I do respect them.

The rest of the day, and really most of the week, I thought about his smile… which in turn, made me smile.

Pure Punjabi

For the last 8 months, I have been living with the Chawla Family. In India, your last name is more than a name, its a large part of who you are. Chawla is a Punjabi name, as my family here is Punjabi, and in additions, Sikhs.

I have to be honest, I had never heard of Sikhism before I came to India. Throughout my year, I have learned about India, mostly from a Sikh Punjabi’s point of view. I went to the Gurdwara (their temple), attended their marriages, wore their traditional clothes, and learned the basics of their religion. Sikhs are a proud religion, and Punjabis are known for being hard workers. My host mom told me that her people were proud, and earned what they had. She said I would never see a Sikh beggar… and to this day, I haven’t.

During my north tour, we visited Punjab, just for a day. There in Punjab, lies the heart of Sikhism: Amritsar. Amritsar is the city that houses the golden temple. The most sacred of Gurdwaras. I was more than excited to see it.

We reached Punjab and the view was gorgeous. The fields were green and lush; full of healthy crops. The animals were friendly and not so diseased. In Amritsar, I felt like I was home. With MY ancestors… and I feel that it’s slightly wrong. These people are no where in my past, and I feel like such a spiritual-seeking foreigner, trying to identify myself with the locals.  But regardless, that is how I felt none the less. Maybe it wasn’t so much that I felt I was one of them, as I felt they were the closest thing I had to a group of people like me, in India.

We walked through the crowded market streets, past cycle rickshaws, beggars, and numerous types of wallahs. Finally, the temple. We turned a corner to be faced by a massive white wall with a central tower and a golden clock. Inside was what I was after. We removed our shoes and deposited them at the counter, and headed inside. Washing our feet and hands first, we stepped over the threshold just as the Golden Temple came into view. The temple was on fire with sunlight and it reflected a brilliant golden tone. There was a large massive ‘line’ of people waiting to enter. The temple sat in the center of a sky blue pool of water filled with large brightly colored fish.

We took our group picture and went to be shoved in line. The line took us an hour. I look back and figure it wasn’t that bad. People wait longer than that for rides at Disneyland.  I could hardly control my excitement as we reached the front of the gate and entered the temple. I was breathless. It was adorned with fabric, mirrors, embroidery and richly colored stones and tiles. Sri Guru Granth Sahib was the center of attention. The Sikhs have 10 gurus and 1 holy book. The book is considered to be a living guru, which means he is offered food, wears ‘clothes’ (which are changed daily) and has a bed in which he sleeps. The Book sat in the middle, behind bars. I stuck my hand through the bars and placed my offering on the floor. I then tucked my legs under me and touched my head to the floor in respect.

In honesty, the time I spent in the central part couldn’t have been more than 30seconds. There were lots of people, lots of pushing, and no time for standing around a gaping. I wasn’t going to leave just yet however, so I took the stairs up to the top floor, a terrace. I could see the line, and the pool of water, the fish, and the communal kitchen. I could see everything.

I headed back down, and out, and met up with the rest of the students. I really cherish that day, it was in the top 20 best experiences on exchange. Although I tried not to be to big-headed about belonging to a Sikh Punjabi family, I loved the way the other students looked to me and Kelsey for guidance on what to do. They were clueless, and we were natives.

At the end of the day, before headed on an overnight bus journey, I went exploring in the ‘mall’ next to the temple. There I purchased a shirt that read “PURE. Panjabi” and a kada (the Sikh bracelet). Things don’t always turn out like I expect though. Everyone loved my shirt, and Kelsey wanted one, but for me, my excitement didn’t last long. In my punjabi-daze, I didn’t realize that the shirt said ‘Panjabi’ and not ‘Punjabi”… and then I tried it on… too small. It doesn’t even matter though. In reality, it was disappointing, but not really a big deal. I will always remember that day, and I never take my kada off. I wear it everyday.

http://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=209900212356340&set=t.1139644684&theater

A Camel Ride Through the Dunes

Who in my readers have ever rode a camel? Those of you who have certainly know it is an experience to remember. The camel sits calmly with his legs folded beneath him. Waiting, slobbering, ignoring its mask of flies. I sat on my camel (his name was Babaloo) and instantly it all changed. Babaloo stood up, leaning so far forward that I almost flip over his front, but I don’t, and he rights himself, and I feel okay for about 10 seconds… then he started walking. The saddle slides a bit from side to side (balanced on a hump I guess it makes sense that it would) and the small fear I have in the back of my head while riding horses, coming pushing and showing to the front in full force because of the difference in height. Its okay though, and within a few minutes I am calm and comfortable. We walk for what seems about 30 minutes. During the way we pass a well where women in brightly colored saris are filling clay pots in a community well, to carry back to their homes. A little further on we pass a group of wild peacocks. One of the males is dancing for a female and I kick myself for not bringing my camera with me. I get over my frustration, and look to my left to see the tree of life. Seriously, this is typical Lion King status. Large and green, it looks like it has been pruned, about 6 feet up from the ground, straight across. It looks somewhat like a mushroom I suppose. Although I admire the shape and the shear size of this tree, I also admire its trunk. In place of one solid trunk, it appears as if the roots have come up from the ground and wound themselves around and through one another to create a mass to support their tree. But then I see what I have been waiting for.

We break through some dense desert trees and in front of my, looming and lazy, are the dunes. They look powerful, but I am not sure what gives them that characteristic. They appear like a still frame of rolling ocean waves. The overall color appears as beige/champagne. The crests in this ocean of sand seemed to be gilded in newly polished gold, while the shadows appear a smoky grey. Babaloo conquered the dunes with little problem, climbing right to the apex. As the exchange students gathered, we took some expected group photos… and then went a little crazy. On a spur of the moment decision… we ran. Down the steep up supportive slopes and down into a valley of smaller dunes. Up and down we ran as the sand seemed to drain energy from our legs and we collapsed. Only foreigners would do this. Our camel guides and a few natives looked at us like we were crazy… some took photos. I don’t blame them, we were crazy, but crazy moments make the best memories.  We lay in the sand. Warm on our skin, scratchy inside our clothes, gritty between our teeth. It was everywhere. Nisha swears it will take years before she gets it all our of her long curly hair.

The next day, we can barley walk. Our legs, butts, and bodies in general, are sore. The we get the news… another camel ride. We decide to buck up and not miss out. As we get on our camels and they start to move, we let out collective groans of pain, but we’re okay. The camels move out of the camping area, and onto another desert path. Surronded by trees and bushes I have never seen before… fear strikes me to the point I almost cry. The camel guide tells our camel to run. Having become accustomed to riding yesterday, I think I would have been fine if I had had my own camel, a seat in the front, and therefore something to hold on to… but I had none of that. This is all in addition to the saddle that moves from side to side. My fear did not come on a hunch, it came from knowledge, I was going to fall. I told our guide, “stop stop!!! Down!” (in Hindi) relatedly until he let me off. Standing on the ground, safe, he tells me to get back on because a jeep can not come for me. I tell him I will walk. He says its 5km and the camels will be running. I will fall behind. I turn around and start running. He laughs and we start off. It felt good to run… but in reality, I am not in shape, and the Indian Summer desert sun is not friendly. I tire out and decide to walk. I fall back. Besides my near attack from an angry rabid dog, I am okay. I can’t see the camels anymore, but a man is approaching me. He walks with me, speaks little English, and thinks I am a good choice for marriage. I laugh it off and enjoy the company. 4 1/2 km later, I see the group, and eventually make it to them. They laugh and ask if I am okay. I tell them I enjoyed my walk, it made a good memory, and I call first shower back at the hotel… I think I deserve it… they agree.

 

One Day At A Time

To write about an entire month where everyday I experienced something new, something interesting, something exciting, something indescribable, or all of the above, would take too long to type, and would eventually become boring to read. However, because I have little happening in my life in Bhopal, I will write about a few events at a time and let you experience my tour over a series of entires. So here goes:

Jaipur: The Pink City:

The city was given this name after the visit of a member of the royal family from England I believe. The current ruler of the city had ordered the city painted pink (although to me it looks orange) for his arrival. Since that time, a law was created that the facade of every building in the city maintain its Pink facade under penalty of law.

Have you ever woken up to the loud almost incomprehensible voice of a wallah? I have… many times. A wallah is a person. There are chai-wallahs, auto-wallahs, samosa-wallahs (samosas are a snack food), and just about every other wallah imaginable. You need something, they have a wallah for it. But not just anybody can be a true wallah. Being a wallah requires a very special and unique skill. A wallah voice. You can hear a wallah and pick them out in a loud crowd very easily. Their voices have no distinct characteristic, other than that they are abnormal. There all wallahs who sound like they smoke 3 packs a day, and have done so for 30 years. There are wallahs who sound like they are in the process of going through puberty, and those who never did. Some wallahs have signature voices that cause them to end all their words in the same sound. Unfortunately, the sound is so unique I can not use letters to re-create it for you, so I will leave that part to your imagination. The wallah’s voice is meant to stand out in a crowd and attract your attention to what they are selling, and as far as that aspect is concerned, they are successful. However, some wallah voices defeat the purpose. They become some unique and distorted… that no one knows what they are selling. This leaves they tourist to ponder how he actually makes a profit. Some mysteries are meant to stay that way though, so I let it go and move on.

It’s 4am. I have been on a train for about 10 hours, in a 3-tier-non-a/c-sleeper. Yuck. The seats, air, and food are all dusty. The occasional cockroach is spotted on the folding table, the floor, the wall, a bed, and on the unfortunate occasion, yourself. Every few trains, we find mice, but they are friendly and cause no problems. Our only real worries come from the very rare, but very feared rat that sticks his head out from between your suitcases to survey his fellow passengers before darting across the aisle between someone else’s luggage and disappearing. Don’t let me ruin the idea of India trains for you, I know it sounds bad, but it really isn’t… I guess…

CHAAAAIIII!!!! CHAIIIIII-COOOFFFEEEE-CHAIIII!. The wallah is projecting in his wallah voice to make sure all the uncomfortably sleeping passengers are aware of his presence as he strolls up and down the aisles. CHAAAIII!!!! He sticks his head in between the once closed curtains of our compartment. “CHAICHAICHAICHAI” He repeats the word in rapid machine-gun like rhythm. No one responds. He leaves. I can hear him as he moves down the corridor, knowing I only have maximum 6 minutes, probably only 2, before another chai wallah comes to disturb my lack of sleep. The demons kept me up through the night. Everytime the train passes through a tunnel, the rushing air and metal on metal of train tracks reverberates within the walls and bursts through the open train window with the sound of 1’000 demons screeching and screaming. Not exactly a lullaby.

We reach The Pink City and start our day by checking in and taking much wanted cold showers. In reality, we are still too tired to function, and the little bit of energy we do have is multiplied and focused on socializing with the people we have grown so close to and know we have to leave behind when the month is over. As I talk to the other exchange students, I begin to see the change India has made on them, and their vies of the country. In short, most people are unhappy and want to go home. So much time in a land of people raised with different morals, etiquette, organizational, and social skills and worn them down to no tolerance. I understand their frustration, but I don’t relate. They complain about their cities, their families, and they situations. They complain about India in general. i believe them. I know why they feel the way they do and what causes their feelings. In most cases, I find it very justified… but I still don’t relate. I like my city. My host family. India in general. Of course it can be frustrating. I miss being early for meetings, and having plans go as planned. I miss the food a grew up with, and not having to worry about the water… but that’s part of exchange. I didn’t come here to feel comfy and at home. i cam abroad to feel out of place, awkward, and occasionally just plain stupid, while I took the effort, and consequences, good and bad, to learn about another culture.

Back to Jaipur though, I saw the Amber fort, it was beautiful. I wish I had the money to build my fort high on a hill, but still in a valley, surrounded by a faux great wall of China, and plant an enormous saffron garden down on my man made lake so that when the wind blows, the breeze smells of saffron. The life of a king if I ever heard one. It was exciting to see the Diwan-i-Khas and the Diwan-i-Am (halls of public and private audiences) after reading so much about them. i was glad I had taken time to read about the Mughals before I came to India, and during my stay in India before the tours. I feel I got much more out of those palace and fort tours than they others because I really knew what I was looking at. I knew what has happened in the hallways of these looming mansions. I knew about the previous occupants, their personal and public battles, and why the things the guide said were important, were important.

The tour was only 25 days, so we had to hurry and after 2 nights in this Pink City, we moved on. The train wait was long but we had great ‘time-pass’ to help. Camp songs from all around the world, (though mostly American) were yelled in camp-like style. We shared our favorites with others, and they shared with us. It is an interesting feeling when you share your childhood memories with a group of international adolescents, to discover they have those same memories. Children on the 90’s.

***Nisha Khan, Canadian appropriately represented our generation by sporting rolled up jeans, a 2-sizes-too-big t-shirt, a side pony tail with curled and teased hair, a bright red fanny back, chuck-taylor shoes, and red framed large sunglasses. I love you Nisha Khan <3

That’s Just Not Done Yaar

(Yaar is the Hindi equivalent of ‘dude’)

Today was… and experience. But through the day, I also discovered how comfortable I am in India, with how well I am able to handle situations that are less than convenient or amiable.

As I wandered around my room preparing for my tour to North India (for anyone who doesn’t know, I am leaving on Monday) when Minni comes in to tell me I have been called to the school… I was confused. I hadn’t gone to school in almost a month. Grade 11 was over and I was supposed to be done. The dean of activities called me in… but would not explain why. After i hurried to get ready, I rushed downstairs where Johney told me there was a package in the back seat of the car I was to give to the dean, that the driver would take me, and I would take the bus back… okay.

I get to school where promptly a lady in the office has the package taken from me for gift wrapping, and then I am ignored. As I stand awkwardly in the center of the office, she tells me ‘It’s okay.”

“Ma’am, what’s okay? I’m sorry but I don’t know why I have been called to the school, can you explain this?”

“We just needed the package, that’s all. You can go”

“…That’s it?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, thank you ma’am.”

I proceeded to head towards the cafeteria and met up with friends who were happy to see me, and I them. I was then informed by a student that I had not been called to give the package, I had been called to talk to the inspector. The Round Square Exchange program inspector….

But I am not in RoundSquare… that’s all I could think of. Apparently they didn’t currently have any Roundsquare students in their school, so I would have to do. During my introduction to the inspector, I learned I was infact a RoundSquare student, I have been at the school for an entire year, and I have from Colombia… who knew?

I told her about my experience in the school, my experience in India, why I chose to do exchange, why i though India was good for exchange, and what my plans for returning to ‘Colombia’ were. (in case you are wondering, I am hoping to attend the University of Washington, in Washington State… Colombia…) Regardless of my repetition in saying Yakima, United States, Washington State, America… I was still from Colombia. Oh well.

The whole thing didn’t bother me much as I actually found it more comical than anything else.

However, I did find something that bothered me immensely when I went in search of my paintings. I found one painting, the one of RadhaKrishna (the woman, man, and dog (that is supposed to be a cow I found out later)) playing the flute. As I looked and looked for my other painting (the one of the blue man and the ‘white’ man, brothers), the teacher asked to help me. I described in and was then dutifully informed that the painting was no longer at the school. It had been framed and given as a gift to a guest…

“I wanted to take my painting home to America though. As a souvenir of Indian art that I had created. I worked for over a week on that. It was really important to me. No one asked my permission. What guest?”

“Any guest it could have been. It was nice to see you again. Take care.”

And that was it… all over. No painting. Gone to some stranger I don’t know who probably with throw it with the rest of their child’s paintings.

I asked Minni about it. She told me that wasn’t done. That what they did wasn’t right, and she didn’t agree with them, but nothing can be done. I guess that is just how it ends then. I least I got one painting. As just in time too. The painting I did save had already been framed, ready to be gifted as well…

The was pretty much the whole day, and then i got home to find one more thing that upset me a bit. I had worn my elephant pendant and earrings that day to school. They are silver and I had bought them during my South trip. They are/were my favorite piece of jewelry from India. Possibly my favorite souvenir of all. I love/ed them. As I removed the jewelry for the end of the day, I discovered that the side of the elephant pendant that lies against my body was no longer shiny… because he wasn’t real silver…

I know it is/was only a necklace, but it really meant a lot to me and I only wore it rarely when i wanted to look nice. It is/was really my favorite… and now I don’t know what to do because if I wear him he turn into whatever not silver color is underneath is oxidized coating… and if I don’t wear him it’s a waste.

just curious, it means that much to me, does anyone know if I can take him to a jeweler in America and have them make another one… in real silver…? Maybe it’s desperate, maybe it won’t be the same memory… but I really like him… my elephant… and I don’t want him to ‘go away’.

A Night In A World of Fantasy

Last night I attended the Billabong High International School Annual Function. A mouth full, I know. Last night was Jasmine’s performance (for the younger children) and tonight is Karan’s performance (older students).

The theme for last night was Fantasy. When I looked more closely however, I realized it was more a night of Disney than Fantasy. I watched Cinderella, Alladin, and watched numerous choreographed dances performed to famous Disney songs.

The favorite part of my evening, of the entire show (and maybe I’m biased, but let it be) was Jasmine. She was one of the lucky students who played a main role. She was Cinderella. She came out originally in a floral gown that looked more like something a clown would wear, until her fairy gods mother arrived. Then her floral fabric fell away to reveal a shinning golden yellow floor-length dress with matching arm bands that covered her fore arms. Beautiful. But then came the part that made it best. As she ran off stage and ‘forgot’ her slipper, the camera man ran up to the stage steps and picked it up, giving it back to her… I guess he didn’t know the story. I don’t think a single person in the audience minded though, it was hilarious.

I will miss Jasmine terribly when I leave, along with the rest of the family. And even something I thought would never happen, although I wanted it to, is I think, FINALLY, after 6 and a half months here, I am slowly bonding with Karan. About time.

Don’t Hassle: I’m A Local

*side note… beginning side note…  :I purchased a shirt at the local mall. It reads, “Don’t Hassle: I’m A Local” I bought this shirt because I feel like I am.

 

 

Some had voiced their concerns to me about the visiting foreigners.  They were going to stay here for a little less than a week, and then leave me. After I had been on South Tour for one month, coming back to Bhopal seemed like punishment. I wanted to go home. I wanted to be in the West. I wanted to be understood and have the things I had been raised to feel comfortable with. India was like prison.

So naturally, when I was around foreigners for a week, people from the Western United States no less, most (including myself) thought my past was going to repeat itself, that my feelings of loneliness and hate would consume me again.

They left today. 2 couples, both from Colorado. They are on their way North. They will be the second group I have welcomed, helped, and said goodbye to as they went to Agra to see what everyone comes here to see: The Taj Mahal. And me, the one who has lived and survived in India for 6 months. The one that knows so much more about their culture, rituals, and ways of life… has yet to see it. I feel like I am having to earn it, and they have it handed to them… but I don’t care. I know about the Taj, I know the history of it, its builders, its contractor, its city… I know it, and I am more than willing to wait in sweet impatience, to see something I know will stay in my mind until after I have forgotten even my name.

So they left, and I will see them once more, for a short visit, and then they get to go home to the country I love, to the environment I thrived in and somewhat long for… but I don’t care, and i am certainly not homesick…. because I am home.

When the couples arrived, I found comfort knowing I was comforting them by being there. Someone they could talk to, converse with, and shamelessly ask questions. I was the person I wanted there when I arrived, but now realize I didn’t need. They went to museums and monuments, temples and restaurants. As we spent an entire day in the market and about 4 nights at the house, I helped. I explained what they didn’t understand, I gave them insight they would have overlooked. I guided them in buying, traditions, destinations, and technique. I helped serve food, I showed them Hindi, I guided them through home life (computer, washing, meals, sleeping, and shoes). And then they left, and I was left with my family to clean. Because they are my family. This is my house. India is my home.

So I repeat, I do not feel homesick. Not in the slightest. Part of me wants to cry when i think of how little time is left. 4 short months… only 1 and a half with my family… and then… I dont want to think about ‘and then’… not yet… not till I have to.

When I left America, I knew I could return, I knew I would return. I knew I would see everyone again, and I could come back to my life…

but what about this life? this family? dog? siblings? city? food?

There is a good chance I will never see it again… and that hurts. I am Indian. I am Punjabi. I am Bhopali. I am a local.

 

I Am Not Sure What Is Happening…

Today, at 7:30pm… I am going to go pick up a couple from Colorado, USA at the airport…

I am excited to meet them, to talk to them, to converse with American adults… but I have no idea what I want to talk and converse about.

I do not know why I am excited, or if I am not really excited and just curious to see them adapt. I like being the Indian-American experienced professional. I like that I get to tell them, from an American view, what India is like, and what to expect…. but maybe that’s it…

Also, they might be the ugly Americans I don’t like, they might be the super conservatives or the super liberals… neither extreme being my favorite.

I guess I will see soon enough.

In other words, I am really confused about how I feel about meeting them.

I guess there is one thing for sure that is going to be really good. Because the Rotarians, as they should, want to make their best impressions and keep conversation up, all the talking (for once) will be in English. a whole month of knowing what is going on in the conversation.

Surely something to be excited about : )