And So It Begins To End

Back alley black market electronics stores, with owners calling for “Uncle” and patrons waiting eagerly in the shadows. Slim young men in flared jean bell bottoms and fuzzy lime green sweater vests, screaming static energy. Texts involving “hey ;)” and “!!!!”, “LUV YA!!!” and “y rn’t u txting me bck????”. 15 rupee cold coffees, side of ice cream please. Convincing the rickshaw drivers to let us drive, in exchange for speaking English to their friends on old cell phones. Welcomed into homes and offices for my filming, always accompanied with cups of chai and large smiles. Post office buckets of glue to seal letters. Bollywood and Zumba dance classes taught to packed rooms of the uncoordinated but highly motivated. Rows and rows of carbon copied earrings. Haggled prices and threadbare sheets. Fresh fig, pomegranate, papaya, lychee off the street corner. The fat man and his fat wife and their fat dog living on the sidewalk down the street. The security guard outside the motorcycle store with the perfectly groomed handlebar moustache and sly grin. Electronic Titanic and Christmas songs whenever cars are put in reverse. Slippery tile sidewalks that have never made sense, but are more inclined towards promoting ice skating than walking. Talking film and philosophy over hot cups of coffee and languid stares. Eight small children in perfectly pressed uniforms climbing out of a single rickshaw upon reaching school. Dancing the night away at an ex-pat party. An entire city shut down by bandits on motorcycles pledging their allegiance to a political party. Bouncing along with four grown adults on a motorcycle. Street side masala corn, no butter. Small Ganesh idols with heads that wobble. Fireworks set off at all hours of the night. Wide-eyed appreciation and narrow-eyed disdain.

I am going to really miss this country. With 18 days left of this program, the end is seeming far too near. Crazy, dysfunctional, beautiful, rigid, exciting, lazy, foul, vibrant, India has undeniably sunk its teeth into me, and I am not yet sure how I will emerge.

Who Said Third Time's the Charm?

Welcome to Goa, for the second time.

Begin your journey with flights cancelled and connections pulled, moving on to beachside ‘Sex on the Beach’ and ‘Between the Sheets’, freshly cut pineapple and papaya and your increasingly aggressive “No” to the sellers of Goan crafts. Meander over to a fruitfully landscaped restaurant to listen to a live band playing ‘Hotel California’, and pick the street side stores clean of any clothing you might potentially see yourself actually wearing upon return to the States. Saunter to a night out on the town filled with coconut Feni and Limca, Bollywood dancing and rushed conversations, that lasts well into the next morning’s sunrise.

Candolim Beach, Goa -- L. Glick

Awake to mango juice and fresh feta salad, followed by leisurely napping to the sounds of wind chimes chiming, infinity pool water approaching infinity, and the slow beating of a heart experiencing contentment. Jolted alive by the crashing of a scooter, recover with a hot, well-pressured shower and the pure happiness accompanied with the donning of a fresh robe post-bathing. Nestle on top the California King bed beneath the romantic mosquito net inspired canopy at the Yoga Magic Eco Retreat, and grow full belly full on a dinner complemented by cheap Indian wine. Join friends for a re-venture downtown to dance the night away with Australians, and Germans, and French, oh my!

Yoga Magic, Anjunta, Goa

Greet the final day with an incense-infused, early morning yoga and pranayama class filled with ohms and exhales and a finale of a big mug of fresh ginger and lemongrass tea. Stretch your stomach to consume all the muesli, curd, pomegranate, toast, and fresh pear jam your body can inhale, and then roll from your outdoor patio down into the island structured swimming pool. Climb feet-first into a beach taxi that will bring you to the acclaimed Aashyana Lakhanpal luxury villas and curl up on the beachside chaises under the hot Indian sun. Say good night to the sun on a cliff look-out while contemplating your future and upgrade to a bottle of vintage white wine served with your dinner on the outside terrace of the Portuguese inspired villa. 

Aashyana Lakhanpal, Candolim, Goa

Pack your bags to head back on the 22:15 flight to Pune, of course only after agreeing to pay the ticket collector who cancelled your initial flight tickets home.

The Group - Capetown Bar, Baga Beach

I Think It's Time to Breath

Following the trail of billowing saris up and over the trash-strewn, impossibly rocky hill and then through the winding labyrinth of streets, my video camera records the faces peering out from windows, the smiles and the laughter of those whom we pass. Those initial looks of confusion and then the breaking of a smile upon realizing the camera is pointed at them, filming their responses. The shrieks of laughter from a boy getting tickled by his mother, the purity of a young girl’s smile as she plays with a baby kitten. Everyone knows each other, calling out hellos as children play makeshift cricket and badminton in the alleys. While this area is technically classified as a “slum”, it is far from Western perceptions about what a slum actually entails. Instead of derelict huts and rotting corpses, this “slum” represents more of a community than most of the Pune I have experienced thus far.

I have come to this area to film for my documentary film project, following the women through the streets, armed with my video camera and rudimentary Hindi, allowing them to take me where they please. She brings me into her modest home, adorned with lavender walls and spotless floors, and sits me down on a last-limb folding chair situated next to an old wire birdcage. Serving me scalding coffee (from which my tongue still burns) and then watching as I try and take chug-approaching sips to match her Olympic drinking rate.

This finally feels real. We do not understand each other, but at the same time we do. Language barriers surpassed, connected by a shared feeling, a shared basic humanity. After I finish my coffee she leads me over to sit on the chair in front of their Bollywood playing flat screen. The others in the family sit on the floor in a semi-circle around the chair, alternating between looking at the screen and my face.

It might finally be happening. Maybe my face has been relaxed by Indian suns, my smile lit by Maharashtrian fires. No longer a Western imperialist, I feel more like Diane Sawyer, but significantly more grungy. I have accepted that I will not be fully immersed in the culture, that I will always be seen first by my race. But maybe I can capitalize on that. Use my novelty to spark relationships. My outsider status to instigate conversations.

For these past couple of weeks I had begun to truly despise parts of India, essentially following verbatim the “Steps of Home Sickness” manual we were handed at the beginning of the program. I hated the looks I got walking down the street, finally caving by wrapping my head and shoulders in a long scarf when leaving the house in an attempt to self-protect against leering glances. I was perpetually cringing, swallowing down hatred and believing I would never understand so there was no point to even try. Taking rickshaws instead of walking to get from one place to the other as fast as possible. Constant tunnel visioning to prevent the seeing of the unpleasant, scarf to face to prevent the breathing in of the pollution, the smell of burning trash.

But then the other weekend when we were in Mahabaleshwar, hill station of the strawberries, it slowly began shifting. We ventured to a small, isolated Shiva temple on the side of a cliff overlooking the cascading hills and deep blue lake below, very Lords of the Rings-esque. Standing in front of the old stone temple, facing the cliff below, lifting my hands above my head, arching my back into the sun in a perfect post card posture. And breathing, really breathing in and out. Breathing in all the good and releasing the bad. It began to click. All that India has to offer, to teach, it was merely waiting for me to release my faulty expectations and actually act upon the pure basis of experience.

While I have less than a month to act on these new ideas, I have nothing to lose by trying.

We Have Fun, Right?

For one week this semester, we were given the freedom to travel anywhere in India -- planning our own trips, attempting to discover the country on our own. Obviously, we booked a travel agent ASAP and devised a route that would offer us the perfect mix of rugged, photo-worthy adventure and hot shower comfort. To keep this from encroaching into the Travelocity review realm, I will try to only highlight some of my most memorable experiences, the memories I will most likely remember in the years to come, when all other memories of this semester have faded.

To begin, we had an early flight out from Pune to Delhi, and then a layover until our flight from Delhi to Varanasi. Delhi airport was amazing, beautiful, clean. I could have easily spent a day or two hiding inside, as I love spending time in airports to begin with. The airport was filled with Western tourists -- usually falling in to one of three subgroups: the middle-aged, recently divorced women inspired by “Eat, Pray, Love”, ready to discover themselves alongside Julia Roberts in the land of color and sound; the business men and women incessantly typing out messages on whirring Blackberrys, looking at India as a means to add a few more 0s to their paychecks; and the ones who smell a little too herbal, with their heads in clouds of Mary Jane and their dreams centered on the 'Namaste'. Looking around was the first time I have begun to feel that India is slowly changing me. I felt a confidence as I walked through the airport, knowing I had experience in this mysterious country, that I could navigate nameless streets and eat sticky rice and soup with only my right hand.

Arriving in Varanasi, was almost like arriving inside a postcard, but a postcard that reeks. Varanasi is filthy while at the same time beautiful. Piles of garbage are set burning on the sides of the streets (the smell we now refer to as "IT") and men and women with leprosy sit with their mangled hands outstretched for donations. Frying oil bubbles and matted hair, freshly painted temples and crumbling shanty towns. Hundreds of religious pilgrims gathered at the Ganges Ghats (bathing stairs) early in the morning for sunrise rituals, and at night there was music and prayers once again. Known as India's religious center, Varanasi was filled with little and large idols, prayers and songs. 

While sitting beside the river to watch the sun work its way up into the sky, there was a group of old women in front of us getting their hair razored off. Kneeling expectantly, they would wait as a young man would come up to each of them, grab their withered gray hair, knife it off, and then proceed to get rid of all remaining tufts and strands until the women were left bald. An exclamation of faith? The martyrdom of sexuality?

On our way to dinner one night, L and I got stuck up to our knees in Ganges river mud. Unable to pull ourselves out without toppling over and slowly sinking farther and farther down, we called desperately for help. To the amusement of a growing crowd, Z was able to pull me out but L had to be rescued by a local who proceeded to climb up the side of the building to gain leverage to haul her out.  But lo and behold, her flip flop was still a foot or two deep in the mud. Refusing to leave behind one half of her precious Rainbows, she demanded that the man retrieve the missing shoe (verbatim – “I am not leaving without my Rainbow!”). Desperate to attempt to wash some of the mud off of our jean-clad legs, we accepted the offer to climb aboard the wooden boat of the local rescuer and dangle our legs from the side into the even filthier, human ash-infused water. Living life in the moment? Check.

Post-Mud Sinkage.

Headed on to the overnight train to Agra. Highlights include a large, Sikh man, complete with a turban and velour track suit, popping into our cabin, making himself at home with one hand on Z’s upper thigh, and inviting in his fellow friends to try and talk to us in English. Very EuroTrip-esque (“mi scuse, mi scuse”).

Embracing the appropriate train ride crunchy attitude.

Arriving in Agra to the Taj Mahal and the Taj far exceeding all my expectations. It is massive and gorgeous, all built in tribute to the king’s deceased wife, setting the bar pretty high for all men to follow. We left with hundreds of photos and dreams of our own future palaces built out of love and ridiculous sums of money.

Future faces of Indian tourism.

Jaipur will be earmarked in my memory for its forts and palaces. Mirrored palace rooms and great stonewalls, monkeys attacking humans and prayers delivered on loud speakers. When I first was walking through the forts I could imagine the laughter and the dancing, the colorful saris flowing and platters of food being served. But then our guide described it as “a luxury prison”, and my perception changed entirely, the forts adopting a foreboding and ominous presence. These forts were built to house the wives and mistresses of the Raja, and no men were allowed inside the premises, save eunuchs. The women could not leave, could not be seen, ghosts of beauty hidden within stonewalls.

Driving on to Jodhpur through Rajasthan – the land of colorful turbans, with truckfulls of pinks, oranges, reds on the heads of wearied travelers. We drove past a run-down old fair area, filled with desert sands, a broken Ferris wheel, and little stalls with dusty Ganesh idols.

Of our travel destinations, Jodhpur was my favorite. Notable events include the King of Bhutan leaning out of his car procession (he was visiting India on his honeymoon) and speaking directly to us – “Enjoy your selves here”. Only if you insist…

I am also now in the holiday cards for half of the Indian population.

But most notable of all was the last night of travel week, spent on the rooftop of our hotel (Kiran Villas) with bottles of Kingfisher Strong, lit sticks of incense, and baskets of papadom. Speaking of the future, our aspirations and greatest fears, we gave in to the temptations of India and made resolute pacts to return. We were then joined by the owner of the hotel, a man with a genuine smile and classic Rajasthani moustache. Dressed in an athletic tracksuit and sneakers, he pulled up a chair and had us meditate with him. Closing our eyes we began with the simple “Ohm”, all together, voices harmonizing into a perfect pitch of peace. And then he taught us a meditation in which with your fingers you close your eyes and ears, forcing you to internalize your own sound. All together humming, I at first broke down and could not help but laugh at the absurdity of it all. And then I took a deep breath and allowed myself to succumb to the meditation, to India, to everything about the rooftop and everything beyond. After a few minutes, we removed our hands from our faces and took a deep breath to bring us back to the rooftop, back to reality. Referring to me as “Doylie”, as he was unable to pronounce my name, he went on to discuss with us the importance of breath, of life, and of doing away with temptations and indulgences, this of course happening all while the little table is covered with our empty beer bottles.

Titanic meets Jodhpur. 

Travel week is over, but all in all it was an amazing week filled with indescribable beauty, movie-worthy bonding moments, and an absurd amount of laughter, apart from the digestion difficulties experienced by the entire group.