rain rain rain

Today there is flooding. I came into the office after a puja at home this morning, but we probably should never have left the house. I'm heading home now.. my aunt just said there's water in the car.

20. Tailored clothes. It's cheaper to get something made to fit you than to buy it in a store. Or if you all of a sudden decide your pants are too long, the guy down the street will shorten them while you watch him do it.

choti khushiyan

As per Tolu's request, a list (in no particular order) of some of the little pleasures in my life here. I'll continue to add to the list in future posts.

1. Being able to step literally right outside the front gate and buy fruits and vegetables any day any time.
2. Service. No matter where you go, it's someone's job to make sure you're comfortable.
3. Scraping the fruit off the mango skin with my teeth.
4. Not having to worry whether the mango I'm buying will actually have any taste.
5. Walking down the street in a sari and not being the only one (although at work, no one else does..it seems girls here aren't used to wearing them. Now who's Indian??)
6. Going out for a run wearing my shorts and being the only one wearing shorts. And the only one running.
7. Trying to practice Hindi by reading the store signs and painfully recognizing the characters and sounding out the words, and thinking that I don't know what they mean (what is kahlar?) only to realize that it says something like "Color Printing."
8. The ridiculous spellings of English words in Hindi.
9. That every banana is an explosion of flavor. Imagine a banana. Now multiply by ten. That is a real banana.
10. Everyone is 'yaar' (short for 'friend') or 'ji' or 'sir' or 'madam.'
11. The cool, licorice-like scent that fills my breath after chewing fennel after a meal.
12. Sitting under the fan in the living room on a really sticky day.
13. There is a season called the "rainy season."
14. Hearing "I Kissed A Girl" by Katie Perry on the radio yesterday.
15. Banana chips.
16. Watching everyone come and go from the living room window. Also handing things to people through the window grate.
17. Handing the guy clothes for ironing when he comes to drop off freshly ironed ones.
18. Actually ironing my own clothes before I wear them. (I think I've ironed my clothes twice in all my time at WashU.)
19. How cutting people off on the road is not only not considered rude, it is a necessary maneuver and a sign of skillful driving.

Beautiful people, beautiful place

By cosmic grace, I was able to spend this past weekend floating in a pool of love. My dad's elder brother is a monk of the Yogananda order and I called him up to see when and where we could meet. This particular uncle I last saw in Binghamton about fifteen years ago when I was six or so. Friday, I flew from Mumbai to Chandigarh. He met me there and we went to a devotee's house for lunch. These people have a beautiful family and are so hospitable. They sent us on our way to Shimla, and we picked up another devotee, Arora ji, along the way, whom I came eventually to consider both a mother and a father! The ashram is tucked up away in the tree-covered foothills of the Himalayas. From the balconies you can gaze accross the valley. The weather is temperate and an even breeze rides over every day. When it rains, the air turns fresh, but Swami ji gave me a shawl to keep warm.

So Arora ji kept us full of excellent cooking. Other devotees from the area came by to pick us up and give me a thorough and highly informative tour of Shimla. I swear, there was one guy who could tell you when and how every speck of dust in Shimla came to be there. We visited a few temples and the Indian Institute for Advanced Studies, which is a historic building that now houses post-docs. Many important historic events took place there. We saw "Mal Road," which comes from the English "mall," which meant a place where the Brits could stroll with no Indians around. Then, they took me to a store which sells fine Himachali goods (as in the state, Himachal Pradesh.) I spent Sunday morning talking to my uncle, hearing some excellent stories and talking of subtle forces. I spent the afternoon with some of the members, just talking, singing, and sitting, letting the evening roll in. They helped me patiently with my Hindi, especially since Bombay had been teaching me pretty crude manners. Everyone there spoke at least 50% of the time in Hindi, so I got a lot of practice listening.

There is a beautiful metaphor in the Autobiography describing Luther Burbank:
"The modesty with which he wore his scientific fame repeatedly reminded me of the trees that bend low with the burden of ripening fruits; it's the barren tree that lifts its head high in an empty boast."
I'll borrow the analogy to say that the weight and magnitude of immense love I receieved in Shimla left me overwhelmed and unable to do anything but lower my head in humility. I don't know if the well of my heart was deep enough to reciprocate. I hope so.

Arora ji accompanied me back to Chandigarh and left me with the Atray family (whom I'd met on my way in). They fed me and gave me, as a parting gift, a beautiful silver cup and a Bible. I was touched; they had maybe known me for a grand total of 90 minutes. They took me to the airport and I reached home safely, where I read a touching email from Arora ji giving me "lots of non stop blessings." Heheh.

In short, it was a beautiful weekend.

Vidya vs. Vidya

I’m once again reminded of the total variability of what we tend to call identity. Dress, speech, mood, even behavior, are totally fluid and depend entirely on everything else. I guess this is what you’d call “structuralism” as per Barthes and Krauss..

Anyway, I am made acutely aware here that I am American (less in my own feeling than in the way others see me), whereas in America, I’m the Indian. What’s more interesting is the way I respond to the way I think people see me. Someone in the cafeteria this week pointed to the saunf (fennel seed, chewed as a mouth freshener) and asked me if I knew what to do with it. I said, “Yes,” but I was thinking, “No, can you tie my shoes for me, too?” I resist being labeled as one or the other. If someone says I’m American, I want to assert that I’m also Indian. If someone calls me Indian, I want to remind them that I am just as much American. In truth, I’m neither. I belong to a crossbreed of first generation Americans. In many ways, we’re extremely privileged. First and foremost, with perspective. We get to see both worlds. And we get the choice. That’s second: the ability to pick and choose a la carte which values we value. And we can leave behind the ones we think will hold us back. Our choices are largely dependent upon which opposing values (from East and West) we can manage to reconcile. Because growing up is not easy when at home you hear one thing and at school another. At the end of the day, you realize that some (very very few) things are universal, but most are circumstantial. A society’s attitude toward cleanliness, relationships, education, food, sex, and even its very notion of respect are all conventional. None of these comes from gospel. For example, women in America wear shorts. People are used to seeing this. Women here do not. People here are not. That’s it; there is nothing more to it. (Of course, the wise woman is aware of conventions and is conscious when she is breaking them.)

I often find my uncle pointing out when we do things differently that it is because I’m American and he is Indian. Clearly, this is not always the case. In fact, it is very difficult to generalize what an American is in the first place. Americans come from everywhere..when you find an American with any particular quality, expect to find another with the exact opposite – sometimes even next door. It’s really very fitting that I am reading (the last chapter) of Yogananda’s Autobiography. (For those of you don’t know, he was an Indian monk who made a divine journey to the West in the early 20th century to share India’s spiritual wealth.) In fact, he published a magazine called East-West. I think he understood better than anyone just how much the two could learn from one another. I feel very lucky to be able to sit at this juncture and observe my two families. So many doors are open to me.

PART ONE **FEATURING: KLM Ticket Agent and the Banana Wala**

I’m spending the next six or so weeks here in Mumbai with my lovely aunt Mangala interning with her company, Unilever India, in the packaging department for laundry.

Before I get to India itself, let me recount my experiences in limbo, otherwise known as Holland.
So, Morgan and Mike come to pick me up at my house the morning of my departure. Before I leave, Morgan reminds me to take a deep breath and make sure I have everything. So I do. And I do. I make my way to the airport and check my bags all the way through to Mumbai. The flight from Chicago to Amsterdam is tough for me, as I've been coming down with something and it finally hits me at full force. But, I get myself to the Schipol airport, where a doctor in First Aid tells me I have no fever. In the waiting lounge, I pull out my papers to make sure I have everything for the coming flight. Lo and behold! I have an expired Italian visa, but no Indian visa. (The back story is that I have two passports, one of which is expired but contains my valid Indian visa. At the door in Saint Louis, I had pulled out both passports and decided that the old one only contained my Italian visa, so really it was unnecessary to bring it along. I had left it in the drawer and taken my deep breath, oblivious to the blunder that would later test the fiber of my will.)

Okay, so I call my mom. Who calls my aunt. Who says there is no way they will let me into the country. Apparently all that matters is the physical document. (No e-record of the number?!) I say to my mom, “I am so sick…” and she says, “You can’t be sick. You have to act.” Okay, jeez, fine. So I go to the transfer desk. Where (as my nonexistent fever breaks) a really kind, efficient KLM rep and his trainee gave me the address of the Indian embassy, which is not in Amsterdam, but in the Hague. Okay. So I call the phone number. Automated message in Dutch tells me the phone number has changed. So I call the other number. Etc. Etc. Finally, I figure out that they will only be open from 3pm to 5pm (right now it’s something like 10am in Holland, and my plane is getting ready to take off) to issue visas. Okay. So I eat, buy a train ticket, get to The Hague, buy a tram ticket, figure out where to get off, and finally find the embassy. At last, some hope. They are super nice, and some admin guy comes down to talk to me. We will call him Rahul ji. He hears me out and then makes me promise to buy a jacket and keep my passport in my pocket, and offers to have his son show me around The Hague. (It turns out his wife was suspicious of ‘some strange foreign girl’ and refused. Alas.) After a few hours of this and that, they tell me that they’ll try to expedite my application but that it could take up to three days.

The hotel they send me to turns out to be booked solid, but the concierge finds me a hostel on the other side of the city. Almost in tears (having not slept in about 30 hours, being sick, and having already walked several miles that day) I hop back on the tram and check into the hostel. I head back into the center to buy some underwear, an umbrella, and a coat, and then call my mum (for the thousandth time) and the airline and go to bed. The next day, I pick up my visa for the embassy and wait two hours to thank Rahul ji. Who hugs and kisses me like I'm his own daughter and gives me his phone number as well as that of his daughter in Dehli.

Then I head back to Schipol and find out that there is no way I can leave Amsterdam that day. Apparently there are no associated flights leaving and if I go on another airline, I will lose the rest of my ticket (my trip back home). So I spend the next few hours figuring out where I am going to stay. On a whim, I get in touch with Caleb, whose mom’s friend of old is in Amsterdam. I finally reach her, and she is more than welcoming. I buy a map and some tram tickets and I'm off. Roam around for a bit, then I call her to meet her. Somehow I figure out how to get there (thanks to my trusty bus skills from living in Florence) and find her. Spend a few hours hanging around by myself, then go to her home where she sets up a very comfy bed on the floor and tells me how to get to the airport from her house.

Wake up the next morning and quietly let myself out. At the airport, I meet the trainee fellow from earlier who asks, “You’re still here?” I guess his boss had inquired about me, curious to know what came of the mess. All I have to give is a juice box (apple), so I ask him to leave it for the guy as a thank you gift. The KLM ticket people tell me I am on stand-by because the flight is overbooked. I’m thinking, no way. I WILL reach India TODAY. They also have to locate my suitcase, which has been floating around the Schipol baggage system for two days. I take my boarding pass (with the big S for stand-by scrawled on it) and go to my gate. Thank heavens…they give me a seat. I am seated in the same row as another Indian-American college student who got on the plane from stand-by; it turns out she’s also interning in Mumbai this summer, and we actually went out together this past weekend. Go figure.

What I learned:

1. Screw up in a country where everyone speaks perfect English.
2. The cosmos takes care of everything.

++++

I spent my first few days in India relaxing, going round, buying a few essentials, and just generally spending time with my family (my mom also has a brother in Mumbai). Oh, yes, and eating LOTS of mangoes. I have to take advantage while I’m here. I’ve been rudely reminded that my Hindi sucks. But I use what I know as much as possible, so I’m learning. I’m really good at saying “I can speak very little Hindi” and “I don’t speak Hindi,” which is probably quite misleading. In fact, that tends to happen to me in every language. I get really good at small talk..only to have to cut every conversation short after we’ve learned each other’s names and talked about the weather. I have found, though, that if you say an English word with an Indian accent or spell it out using Hindi script, it counts as Hindi. Which means my Hindi vocabulary is enormous…the plus side of a world long-dominated by the British Empire. Actually, though, plenty of people don't know I'm American. Anyway, I seem to be doing just fine...the banana wala outside the house refused to take any money from me the first time I went to buy bananas. So I came back in and sent the watchman out to give him the money.

So, the internship…The office is kind of a temporary set-up while Unilever puts up a new building. It’s not far from home, and there are the most adorablest puppies that live in the complex. It’s sad, they don’t get much to eat. And the littlest one has scratches on its head.. but I gave them a few biscuits on my way out the other day. Ever since then they run to me when they see me and I just want to pick them up and hug them..but I don’t touch them (no worries, Ma). I “started” “work” on Monday. (I spent the majority of the day reading at my desk and wandering around. I’m reading Paramahansa Yogananda’s Autobiography of a Yogi, which is quite lovely.) I’ll be working on revising the visuals for a brand before it gets launched nationally (have I said too much? I’ve vowed confidentiality..), which is a really cool project, but I have had a lot of down time this week as there’s a lot of inertia to overcome.. And also they haven’t given me internet, so I can’t even pass the time that way. Last week I had two meetings which involved briefing me about the brand and whatnot… Actually, I’m really excited at the prospect of being able to travel. For me to get a better idea of the market, they’re going to send me to the states where this brand is sold so I can see the shops and visit consumer homes, etc. Basically, people are really nice here. They just weren’t actually prepared to get me working right off the bat. However, this week, I’ve finally started generating some work on my project. Also, there’s this strange smell in my corner of the office sometimes. It seems like it’s coming from a cupboard. I don’t know.

Okay. Well that was something like two posts in one. Next time I will tell you about my friends. As soon as I make them.