Things

I’m sitting on my roommate’s bed right now. We just finished practicing Hindi, and now we’re watching the rain and listening to music. It's nice.

People

Observing the people at the antique car rally gave me the slight sensation of watching a play. The characters all seemed like shoddy imitations of wealthy Americans, each one more eager than the next to show their classy tastes. The people at the party at City Palace were a little different. They didn’t need to pretend to be on top, because they actually are. Government officials, major executives, fashion designers, the former royal family, other assorted badasses, etc.

In America, I instinctively want to condemn the rich along with the upper middle class as shallow, selfish, spoiled, and so on. I’m still not entirely sure, but it seems like maybe such a categorization is less fair for their Indian counterparts. These people were not born with trust funds. The remnants of British rule provided them with no established path to success. They were entrepreneurs who treaded their own path and reached their current position through education, work, and creativity. Especially the women. There were no women in power in India 30 years ago…there couldn’t have been…making their very existence is a testament to their determination. If I was an Indian woman twenty years ago I would want to be following that path.

I don’t know. Maybe they exploited the Indian poor in order to become the Indian rich. Maybe it was their caste power and familial wealth that enabled them to get where they are. Maybe the path to success is irrelevant because who they are now is still unacceptable. I’m not entirely sure what I think of them. Or even if there is a universal “them” at all. I need to learn more, observe more, interact more, think more, and by then hopefully know more.

People

We talked about divorce at dinner tonight. Mumiji said that she couldn’t understand it, that she was married to her husband for 40 years, that he died twenty years ago, and that not a second goes by without her thinking of him. She cried. It was so beautiful and sad. I want to love like that when I’m married.

I miss you kid.

Things

While walking through Jaipur today, I came across some small Republic Day celebration and decided to take a closer look. I stepped into the courtyard and staked out a seemingly hidden position in the back next to a tree. One person casually turned and noticed me. Then another. Then another. Then a wave of them. Oy. Several women waved at me to sit in one of the empty chairs.

I tried to pick an inconspicuous one in the back, only to have two young men immediately approach me and tell me I needed to move. Thinking the jig was up and I was getting booted out, I stood up and prepared to leave. To my surprise, they started leading me forward instead, explaining that I was supposed to go to the front. Kya? Kyaaaa? I nervously tried to escape, but they assured me everything was fine.

Over my nervous protests, they emphatically explained that I had to go up. I weighed my options. I could embarrass myself by making a scene and stubbornly refusing to go up. I could embarrass myself by making a mad dash for the exits. Or I could embarrass myself by going to the front of the stage and having everyone titter, chuckle and guffaw.

In the name of cultural immersion, I decided to brave the bemused stares of the swarms of Indians and head up to the front row. There was indeed much staring and a good deal of chortling, but I survived. Once I sank into one of the cushy front seats everything was fine. The woman who sent her messenger boys to fetch me thanked me for coming and explained that she wanted to make sure I got the full cultural experience (I think). The show, a combination of traditional dances and Hindi speeches, was neat. I did my best to join in at the right time for all the seemingly spontaneous clapping sessions that punctured the show, and think I did a reasonably good job.

All and all it was good times. But it showed me that my usual strategy of invisibility is not going to work in Jaipur. Being white and a woman in India is about as subtle as a jewel encrusted belt that says BLING…and only half as stylish.

Things

I have been out of commission for the past four days with a very bad case of silly-weak-American-in-a-foreign-land syndrome. In addition to all the usual trappings of traveler’s sickness, I had two glorious nights of fevers. Being delirious was interesting enough, as I unsuccessfully tried to fight off the waves of confusion that drowned out lucidity before succumbing to fever dreams. That cold feeling though- that you can’t escape because it’s emanating from inside you- that was bad.

They ended up shipping me to the Suni Hospital for an overnight glucose IV to counteract my uberdehydration. Listening to the doctor disdainfully diagnose my condition as fatigue before running off to treat real people with real illnesses was pretty embarrassing. Calling the director of my program to pick me up the night I got back after I snuck to an internet café and subsequently realized I had neither the strength nor mental capacity to find my house was downright mortifying.

On the upside, this current period of oscillating between sickness and health has given me the luxury of an excess of free time, which I have been using to write these thoughts and experiences. It’s not as much fun as having new experiences, but it’s almost as valuable. Memories are such slippery things. You can’t always access them later. Sometimes, they disappear into the folds of your mind, and only come out again if something sets them off. The thought of memories, for instance, always causes me to think about that time we found baby rabbits in our backyard after the neighbor’s bastard dog had killed their mother, and fed them with eyedroppers and gave them to The Grove. That memory is a keeper, because it’s forever linked to my thoughts of oft-forgotten memories.

The tangled web of love and pain and competition and embarrassment and manipulation and bitterness and hate that was my life as a high school debater has been compressed, squeezed, blocked out, and otherwise twisted beyond recognition. It’s usually little more than a blurry haze. But I still have that book, where each debater wrote a page at the end of camp. And the entries, or even the thought of the entries, sets off a zillion different firecracker memories of mattmaliawhopretendedtolosehisglassesintheraincuzhethoughtitwouldberomanticnickandjoshzloofwhosaidhebrokeupwithhisgirlfriendcuzoncehemetmeherealizedshewasntthatcoolmeatthekarmelsutrastoreandmestealinghisscarfbeforeweweredatingconniesmokingwiththelifeguardwhoknewiwaswearingabarnotaswimsuitkatandicrackedoutwritingourbiodiversityfilerejowhosaidhedneverforgetaboutmemikemaffewhoboughtthatvalentinesdaytiefrisbeeatcatholicfootballattheswingtheandrewshelpingmecleanmyroomandfindingthebrushisleptonfortwomonthsmaggieahnthinkingthewayiflowedwascutemethinkingjoanwasprettydebatingdanallenandtameemniceestteameverbensolowandbaseballthemostamazinggameofmylifeandmattwallaceandbaseballbeforehedecidedhehatedmeandhadthechancesarahwillbreakmyheart100%awaymessagescaroandhercrazypalaceinmiamimakadathehotlyingbrazillianfilesalloverthefloorwithnataliethePRESSureisAHNirenedesigningmywallformybirthdayandhuggingmeawkwardlywhenigotoutoftheshoweronlineconversationswithamilliondifferentpeoplefromfiftydifferentstatesaboutthesamefiveorsixthingsbutitwasalwaysinterestinganditalwaysmattered and god. So many people who mattered so much to me once. Even if they don’t matter anymore, they shouldn’t be forgotten.

I think I had a point that was related to India. But it has drowned in that stream of consciousness.

People

The antique car rally ended in the palace gardens. Healthy, wealthy light skinned people bathed in the sunlight, went clink-clink with their wine glasses, and drank the blood of the proletariat. I have been trying my hardest not to instinctively condemn the elite of India, but it’s difficult when they seem so stereotypical. My roommate Erin and I strayed from the palace grounds. We crossed the invisible barrier between opulence and poverty and were suddenly in a land of little yellow plants and little people. Children streamed out of their huts and gestured excitedly at us, chattering away in Hindi. We tried to talk to them with our halted guidebook style communication while they touched our faces and our clothes. They mostly just giggled at us with that kind of uninhibited delight that only lasts for a while before it hardens to cynicism and fear.

Things

Listening to the translated poetry at the Jaipur Literature Festival reminds me of how bizarre I find the idea of translating texts. So much of the meaning and imagery evoked from prose is released by the specific words the author chooses. How can some third party possibly capture whatever beauty or pain the author is trying to express? I suppose they manage, as reading a translated version of Homer’s Iliad certainly feels authentic enough. But maybe Homer’s concept of Achilles’ horse was more magnificent than splendid. Perhaps Priam was meant to be prudent, not wise. I wonder how many of those subtle yet important (to me at least, and probably also Homer) get lost in translation.

Places

The streets of Jaipur, especially near the Walled City, are fascinating. Cars, camels, elephants, rickshaws, and bicycles are all going their merry way down the same roads. It’s a physical manifestation of a country trying to modernize while remaining deeply connected to traditions. It’s bizarre, but it somehow makes sense.

Driving down those streets (or crossing them) is an experience. Signs are more guidelines than actual rules. Stoplights are nonexistent. Sidewalks are dirt and sand heaps. Honking your horn every four or five seconds to let the world know where you are isn’t just common, it’s mandatory. Our guidebook gives the three rules of survival for the road.

1. The one who is the biggest has the right of way. The big trucks, overloaded, pay no need to you coming into your lane, nor should you expect them to.
2. The one who has the least to lose has the right of way. That is the reason why a Mercedes or an Opel Astra gives way to a battered old Ambassador, and a Rickshaw gives way to no one. Pedestrian gives way to all.
3. The cow always has the right of way.

The cow rule is especially clutch. Bovines abound in Jaipur. Everywhere you look you see one (or ten) being worthless, soaking up some sun, eating whatever looks tasty nearby, leisurely swishing at the flies that have congregated around. They’re definitely living the good life. So underserved. If I listed every animal based on how deserving I feel they are they of worship, the cow would probably be sandwiched between the panda bear and the chicken. Much cooler are the hyperactive little monkeys that chill in the trees. I swear I spotted one of them reading a newspaper the other day. And another one, clearly distraught over the unfair human bias in the media, tearing that same newspaper up.

People

If I use the term quite loosely, then meeting the other 16 or so people on MSID India trip was ok. It’s not them, it’s me. Meeting new people- the kind of new people that I will be around for an extended period of time at least- has become progressively more difficult for me. Needing to impress, sticking to socially acceptable conversation topics, trying to act friendly but not TOO friendly, showing off your best anecdotes…the whole process just doesn’t feel very genuine. Which is all well and good, but that wellspring of semi-sadistic enjoyment I used to derive from fake interactions seems to have dried up as well. Blast. During that critical first impression stage, I was unable to muster up very realistic seeming interest in everyone else’s tales of travels and constipation, and almost completely incapable of chiming in with my own canned stories. Due in large part to this self sabotage, I found everyone uninteresting and simple (which probably isn’t accurate), and probably came off as unfriendly and strange (which probably is).

For the five hour car ride to from Delhi to Jaipur, I planted myself in the supremely antisocial front-seat-next-to-driver-who-speaks-little-english location and proceeded to alternate between reading my book, peering out the window, and listening to and subsequently disregarding everything everyone said in the back seats. I started to toy with the idea of dropping the program, using some of the money to travel around India for a month or so and the rest of the money to bribe a host family to take me in and a microcredit organization to let me work for them for free. Then I discovered that one of the girls on the trip had Belle and Sebastian on her ipod.

I’ve given a lot of preachy speeches about how much I don’t understand/grudgingly accept/dislike/despise people who use music to define themselves and others. I have probably given an equal number of speeches about how I have the absence of music taste and enjoy listening to it while not feeling any deeper level. Well yeah, screw that. She Wants Me was auditory cocaine, minus the unpleasant come down. Instant gratification, a feeling of connectedness with everyone around me, excitement, happiness, life. Everything was good again. It was incredible. Whispers of those same sounds and emotions are skimming over me now as I drift to sleep.

Places

Old Delhi is alive. It’s a city brimming with exotic smells and noises and sights and feelings. Taken in all at once, it’s almost a sensory overload. The first rickshaw that almost runs you over is startling. The first person who grabs at you for being white and a woman is aggravating. The first small boy who sticks out his stump of an arm to ask for a rupee is horrifying. After a while, your body deadens and your mind hardens to make everything easier to deal with.

I feel like that little boy might be seared into my memory. Not what he looked like. I probably couldn’t even describe him if I tried. My eyes seemed to almost involuntarily slide away from the image, unable to accept it as reality. But the feeling I felt when I saw him- a blend of pity and revulsion with a dash of fear and a sprinkling of guilt- that is locked in. I didn’t give him a rupee.