The semester has ended. Saris were worn with tears and smiles, nervous laughter as the future seemed a little too imminent for comfort. Plane tickets printed from 5 rupee corner stalls and last minute dosas eaten with a vengeance alongside Kingfisher Strongs.
When I leave here things will change once again. Begin to forget the names of the others on my program, slowly push the Indian clothing farther back into my closet. But it happened, and its reality cannot be diminished. It has been so much more than I could have ever expected. This experience has made me laugh and cry, vomit and pull the threadbare covers way over my head to block out everything around me. I have danced alone on the dance floor and sang with thousands of people, screamed with excitement and sprinted from a desire to reach my destination faster. But it will start to fade, becoming more reminiscent of a dream than a memory.
So I have captured some of it here, more for me than for you, in an attempt to preserve these past couple of months for a little longer.
This semester I have about seen it all. From neon turbaned farmers to bikini-clad men. Cheered Pitbull on from a scantily guarded backstage and spoke with the President of Bhutan from his honeymoon motor brigade. Shared overfilled rickshaws with immigrant families and drove through the city with four adults on a motorcycle. Painted red for Ganapati and unknowingly tainted even whiter by bleaching soap. ‘Like a Prayer’ belted karaoke and sobs through a Bollywood film. Feet adorned in bedazzled heels and caked with feces encrusted mud. Danced on top of bars and danced Dandiya with the best of them. Survived many near-deaths while crossing “pedestrian” crossings and crashed to the dried mud on a scooter. Seen dead bodies floating and polio-stricken men crawling. Breathed in burning flesh and opium-flavored incense. Ran from security guards through stairwells and attended a German ‘Merry Christmas Party’. Shared bottles of Petron with Bollywood elite and sipped powdered tea from cracked cups in the slum. Swam in a mosaic tiled pool and the excrement filled Ganges river. Modeled for a hair and makeup salon and partied with the British Cricket Team. Replaced cutlery with my fingers and substituted coffee for chaha.
Dove fully clothed into the Indian Ocean at sunrise and played cricket on the beach in Mumbai. Apartment building underground clubs and endless buffet lunches. Underwent every body ailment possible and lived to see another day. Paddle boated in Mahabaleshwar and canoed in Varanasi. Stared at and then stared right back. Took hundreds of photos and was featured in hundreds more. Danced in Conga lines with middle-aged Indian women and gave up paying to get blessed. Drank chai with famous filmmakers and filmed my own documentary. Peed in a hole festering with critters and began only taking my showers at the gym. Overnight buses and overnight trains. Explored Colaba with the Google Privacy Team and got my fortune told from a rotting old man. Rickshaw rides of shame and holy temple visits. Saris unraveling at the Marriott and days relaxed into Ali Baba pants. Ate desserts with tin foil wrapped on top and swallowed what tasted like rat poison in an embrace of Eastern medicine. Used Hindi as a form of police bribery and sang along to a Jim Morrison cover band. I have wandered and I have found.
These past couple of months I have truly lived. And one of my greatest fears is that when I return everything will seem bland in comparison. The smells and the sights will return to merely pleasant, and I will be left in the midst waiting for something to stir up within me once again, left staring at blank white walls wondering where all the color went.
No comments:
Post a Comment