6 months of the ramblings of a crazy person in India
And like, that photo was taken kind of a while ago, and I, like, look a little different in that picture than I do now. Like, I look older now. And then I, like, realized that one day I’m not going to look anything like I do in that picture, you know? And like…I don’t know if I’m okay with that.
Winnie the Pooh always says it best.
1. I spent my fourth of July on a roof watching homemade fireworks (one exploded in glitter and confetti, and made my ears ring for a good hour), playing with snakes (the local snake charmer brought by cobras and vipers. I’m too much of a chicken to hold the poisonous ones, but I fell in love with a baby snake and have resolved to get one someday), and lighting sparklers (I looked straight at them and saw Ohio-shaped sunspots for the rest of the night. Miss you, Oberlin). Not quite the same as watching fireworks in St. Louis Park, but lovely none the less.
2. Speaking of home, I will be back in exactly one week. This feels twelve kinds of surreal. I know I’ve been whining for ages about how I want to go home—but just to be clear, it’s not because I don’t love it here. I do. I really do. In a way that I wasn’t really expecting and I can’t really explain. On the plane ride here, I was a total wreck. I hadn’t slept in 3 days, and I was so relieved that I had my visa. After I said goodbye to everyone, I shut off my phone, and proceeded to cry on and off for the entire ride to India (I also muttered to myself a lot because I was trying to learn the Hindi alphabet before I got here. Mission accomplished, but at the cost of maintaining any appearance of sanity for the poor guy next to me). I put on my sunglasses to cover it up, but who am I kidding…..
I’m sure that the trip back to the US will be every bit as teary.
3. Despite the fact that I’m feeling just the eensiest bit emotional (alright, I’ll admit it, I cried during an episode of the OC. Also I watched the OC. The entire first season, to be exact. I am not nearly as ashamed as I should be) many things are great. I’m basically done revising and gathering things for the pre-school, I’ve heard some incredible stories of the most BAMF women ever, and I got to play with the cutest puppy ever and help name it (its name is Muffin, though it’s pronounced “Muffeen” if you’ve got a Marathi accent). It’s the little things…right?
Today, I taught some more. Some things worked, some things didn’t (ending with stampedes, cut knees, and lots of tears) but that’s how you figure out which activities to use (or not). Most of the kids are convinced that my name is America Didi. And when they draw me, they give me two large hands, two large feet, with a small stomach on my left knee. Pretty consistently. America Didi is a very bizarre looking creature…..
1. Today, we tested out a lesson plan for the first time. I’ve been compiling them since I got here, and I’ve had about a year’s worth for a couple weeks. Things just take a while to get going here, sometimes. And, as with any plan in India, it didn’t quite go how I expected. I’ve never worked with kids that young before—some of them are only 2 years old. And sometimes when you ask them to draw a shark, they write the ABC’s. Or draw you a lot of flowers. But overall, I’m happy with how it went, and I think that the longer they do these things, the easier it will get.
2. The pre-school teacher, Meena, was excited that I wore jewelry. I have become one of those people who wears bangles and earrings. And matches them. Meena put flowers in my hair, and then told me that I had become the perfect Indian woman. Then she asked me when I was going to get married. I feel like I’m too young to have people nagging me about this already. So it begins….
3. Two days ago, I fell out of my chair because I was thinking too hard. I was considering how you explain the rules of ketchup to a foreigner (no, kitchen staff, it does not go with pasta or salad, but it does go with grilled cheese and fries), and then I fell out of my chair. I am no longer functional. OKAY I’M READY TO COME HOME NOW.
4. My computer is rejecting India. It has started doing this charming thing where every once in a while, the screen turns blue. I googled it, and it came up as “blue screen of death.” This does not bode well. Anybody know anything about this? Help me pleeeeease!
1. My youtube queue is filled with nursery rhymes. The only topics that I really look at on Pinterest are related to crafts and pre-school activities. I can’t stop singing “You are My Sunshine.” This is it. I have finally lost my mind. I am regressing into a 5 year old. On the plus side, I have lesson plans for close to two terms of school. It only cost me my sanity. Also, I was running out of ideas, and I may or may not have adapted a drinking game into something suitable for pre-schoolers. Don’t tell anyone.
2. I took a weekend off and went to Delhi, because I knew I was going a bit stir crazy. I won’t say everything that happened—what happens in Delhi stays in Delhi, you know? But I will tell one story. I walked into a liquor store, since I can’t buy liquor in Jamkhed. There’s a huge alcoholism problem in this town, and it looks bad for foreigners (especially women) to buy liquor. So I decided to bring some back from Delhi. I walked into the store and asked an old man who was smoking a long brown cigarette for a bottle of gin. He handed me a bottle of Tanqueer, and I turned it over in my hands to check for the price. I took out my wallet and handed him 1500 Rs. He took a drag from his cigarette, looked at me, puffed out the smoke, and then informed me that it was 1600. I shook my head, pointed at the back, and told him that it said 1500. He considered this. Then he grabbed a sticker gun, slapped a new orange sticker on the bottle, and wrote 1600 in red ink.
That’s Delhi for me, in a nutshell. Angry, smoky, lazy, and after you for every last rupee you’ve got. I’ll take it.
3. Lately, I’ve been purchasing items exclusively in the colors red, white, and blue. I think this is my subconscious telling me to get home already. I have a jam-packed, busy work schedule (whoa, imagine that!) ahead of me for the next few weeks, and I know it’s going to fly by. I am going to be back in Amurrica sooner than I can say “namaste.” It’s not that I’m sick of India or anything. I’m really not. The heat has subsided, I eat lots of mangos and chocolate if I feel sad, and I’ve decided that Indian clothes are really comfy. But I am sick of being away from the people I love and care about the most. I think out of everything, I’m most excited to sit over a cup of black coffee (or a bottle of Andre) and hear all the things I’ve missed from the past 6 months (even longer, in some cases).
India x123242354356903468
The first week I’m all:
But by the end of the semester I’m like:
How I feel when I think about coming back to the US.
OBVIOUSLY the first thing I eat when I get home is going to be a Bacon Sundae from Burger King.
I’ve also been jonesing for some other American nomz. The list includes guacamole, hummus, strawberries, cheddar cheese, goat cheese, and stuffed olives. Mmmmmmmm. Going to be eating them SO SOON!
I realized that home is not a place. It cannot possibly be a place because if I really had one refuge I could name by a set of coordinates or a three-line address, you can bet I’d be there. I’d be there to kiss you when you wake, push your hair back after you shower, and slice the bananas for our breakfast. I’d be there to argue when you come home, swear when the moment calls for it, and give in when it strikes my fancy. All those things and more if I only knew where to go. Instead I’m left with one long list of destinations and two empty hands. Because my life is in flux and home cannot possibly be a place.
But home might be an amalgamation of people I have grown to trust, despite my best efforts to keep a distance.
Home might be the moment my raveled yarn got intertwined with yours and I couldn’t look back without seeing all our entanglements.
In the past year, the idea of one residence for my soul has become more and more impractical. But if home has to be a physical space, its area isn’t something I could map out if I tried. Any sense of belonging I have oscillates between being too big and too small to comprehend. For though my home spans oceans, it is no smaller than the gap between our bodies at night and no wider than the periphery of your embrace.
