Note: I’ve committed the same blogging sin as before… I left you hanging.  My reason: Coming home is hard sometimes.  Writing that final “signing off” blog means I’ve finished an adventure.  I’ve crossed back over the ocean.  My quests are simpler, easier, and significantly less interesting now.  Austin is my home again, and going to class fills my days.  I will be updating on the process of applying to the Peace Corps and Fulbright.  (YAY!!)  But, until then, here’s what I started and never finished.  I wrote this on May 26, 2010 and never had a chance to post it.  Cheers, friends.  And thanks for welcoming me home so beautifully.  :)  - SJ

Home.  That word has developed into so many transient meanings.  (I think that’s what they call “growing up.”)  But whatever it means, I’m here.

It’s been a week and two days since Texas welcomed me again, not before an ocean crossing journey and a delicious French dinner with my cousin Rachel in London.  (Thank you, Rachel!)  I successfully smuggled many illegal things through immigration via my sweet smile and unassuming nature.  (Just kidding.  They weren’t illegal; just frowned upon.)  I hugged my family waiting just outside the sliding doors, and we headed immediately to Cafe Brazil for Tex-Mex food.  Yes, that is where my priorities lie.

Since then, I’ve conquered jet-lag, driving on the right side of the road, and a job search with only minor injury.  Yes, it is good to be home.  Yes, I do miss India.  Reverse culture shock.  America is lackluster.  All of that.

Today, I’m speaking to classes of first and second graders at my Mom’s school about my travel to Ghana and India.  They’re studying culture around the world and have been adorably interested in the pictures and clothes I brought.  (Apparently, all first graders think the Taj Mahal is in Washington, D.C.)

It’s good to be home.

Auntie promised me she would teach me how to cook. I’ve been busy and not motivated. She hasn’t pushed it. But, seeing as I leave soon, I thought I’d ask. She said, “Right now?” I said, yes! Then she sent me into the kitchen with Radhe, a servant.

He taught me how to make chai. My Hindi is good enough to understand most of what he said, and the visuals certainly helped. I asked small questions in Hindi, like, “Only milk?” and “How much water?” The short, Bengali servant smiled for a picture when I asked, but then gave me a chiding look and continued to teach. I asked about masala chai, causing him to get a stepladder and find some cardamom shells to add to the pot. (He had to ask Auntie the English word for ‘cardamom’.) After it was all done, he gave me the rundown again with a serious face, so I’d remember. A full foot shorter than me, he looked up and asked if I understood.

“Hai ji.” I understand.

Radhe, a chai-making machine

When Rashmi, the older female servant, came to make dinner, Auntie told her to teach me mango chutney. Rashmi brought me into the kitchen and handed me a pairing knife and green mango. When I walked into the kitchen, Radhe was sitting on the floor holding his cute wife by the legs while laughing. Embarrassed, he let her go and we all laughed. Rashmi quickly explained with a smile that she would be teaching me, so they needed to behave. We set about peeling unripe mangoes. Radhe made a quick snack of papri chaat, chattering to me in Hindi about how to make that too, since I was already learning so much.

After peeling and washing the mangoes, we threw them in a pressure cooker. “Three whistles,” she explained. That’s about fifteen minutes. She shooed me out of the kitchen, promising to call me when the time was “expired”.

Right on time, a soft knock came at my door. I skipped down the hallway with a passing laugh from Auntie. Rashmi explained the mangoes were too hot to touch, but you had to anyway. She scraped all the soft pulp into a bowl and added a mixture of black salt and pepper, instructing me firmly to stir. Rashmi and I have always exchanged passing smiles in the mornings and afternoons, but never more than that. The spark in her eye was telling… She loved this. Though I could only understand less than half of what she said, I was captivated. I loved this.

“Bandh hai.” It’s done? “Hai.” She motioned for me to try it with my finger. I did, and smiled. “Zyada chini?” Yes, I replied. It could use more sugar. And more mango, I added. She smiled and dumped the rest of the sugar container into the bowl, trusting my taste.

As we were finishing, Auntie walked in and laughed at the sight of me in the kitchen. Rashmi shyly looked between her and me, asking a question I couldn’t understand. Auntie translated.

“Will you make this for your mom in America? Will you teach her how to make it?”

“Hai ji!” Of course, I will!

Rashmi’s face lit up with pride and approval. Her recipe was going to travel the world.

When Auntie left, Radhe spoke up and asked me something about a house in America. Rashmi picked out the few words she knew in English to help. “You. House. America.” She looked at me expectantly.

Ohhh, do I HAVE a house in America? Their faces said yes.

With my family, yes, I replied in Hindi. ”Bhai-behen?”

Yes, two sisters and one little brother.

“Teach them, too.”

Of course, I will. Of course.

I had dinner with Sunita tonight.  Remember her?  She was the smiling face and warm embrace that welcomed me off the plane in January.  As I gave her one last hug, I promised through tears to return again.  She grabbed my hand as the rickshaw drove away and waved goodbye to the same amazing woman who welcomed me to this country first.

The night air was cool in the open auto, and I relished it.  Within a few seconds of leaving her, tears started.  I’ve cried so much the past few days.  My friends have been leaving, one by one.  I’ve said so many goodbyes.

Sunita told me once that I have an Indian heart.  ”You feel like an Indian.  You cry like an Indian.  You smile like an Indian.”  I might.  I really might.

But my heart only really felt two things as I was riding home in one of my last rickshaw rides.  I want to stay here forever. I think I could.  I’ve said before that life is complicated here.  I like complicated; I can do complicated; I prefer complicated.  It’s beautiful to me.

And… I don’t want an office job. Never has any menial thing been so clear to me.  I don’t want a job that keeps me in a cubicle, behind a desk, on the phone, staring at a computer.  Not even a part-time job like that.  It’s not that I’m restless and want to travel.  It’s not that I would find it boring.  It’s that I need people.  I would rather work at Olive Garden where I can interact with and get to know and help and smile at… People.

If anything, that’s what I’ve learned here.  My heart needs other hearts to beat right, and it isn’t shy or unskilled at finding them.

(Leaving for a week of backpacking tomorrow.  Then I’m on a plane to the other side of the world.)
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PS… HAPPY BIRTHDAY, DEBORAH.  It’s my sister’s birthday.  :)  Click here to see funny pictures of her growing up and stuff.

When talking to people back home about my experiences here, I alternate between bragging about bucket showers and Indian toilets to surprising them with stories of shopping malls and fancy hotels.

The truth is… Delhi is kind of a big deal.

I came here looking for a totally different experience than what I got.  As orientalist as this may be, India was an “other” for me.  A place so far outside my culture, that it would stretch and change me.  I knew the poverty line was lower and the development was far from Western standards.  But I didn’t count on Delhi being so… Cosmo.

The nicest hotel I’ve ever been to in my life?  Le Meridien in New Delhi.  The nicest mall I’ve ever been to?  DLF Emporio in Vasant Kunj.  The nicest movie theatre?  PVR Cinemas in Saket.  I’ve eaten fancier meals here, been to fancier restaurants.  I’ve even seen a Maserati driving down these streets.

The lobby of Le Meridien in New Delhi

Delhi is a metropolis by any definition.  I don’t think my world here is quite like you imagined it.

However, it’s a thriving example of the best and worst of India’s economic situations.  The worst – that’s here too.  The miles and miles of slums, or “unauthorized” housing developments.  The construction camps on the side of the road where the poorest sleep once done with their menial labor jobs.  The beggars on the side of the road: kids, parents, and disabled.  The trash piling up in open spaces.

Near the entrance of Jai Hind, the slum where I teach

Delhi is a dirty place all the time, and a sad place sometimes.

To be honest, I can’t say it’s solely one of those sides that keeps my heart here.  The worst part, to help and try to change the situation of the poor… That keeps me here for sure.  But the best part, the malls and conveniences, has a draw I can’t deny.  The Western familiarity keeps me comfortable, whether I want to admit it or not.

Delhi is so hard to explain because it’s comprised of layers and layers of the variation that defines a “city”… Religions, ethnicities, nationalities, classes, governments, arts, cultures.  It’s all here, in polar and intense forms.  In Delhi, you see BMW and bullock carts rubbing wheels on the street.  That’s life here – complicated.

It’s so hard to answer the question, “So, what’s it like in India?”  I’ve just stopped trying.  Amazing, I’ll say.  But what I really mean is…

You’ll just have to come here and see for yourself.

Sarah Jane

It’s like a thin crepe with potatoes inside.  I used to eat it every morning in the winter.  With chai and a banana.

Auntie made it this morning since it’s my last Sunday with her.  She told me it was a “special breakfast” which usually means a lot of fruit and fancier dishes.  Then she cried when she set the parathas in front of me.

I can’t believe I’m leaving this place.

I have a post about McDonald’s waiting in the wings.  But, for now, I’ve made all my Facebook albums public.  (If anyone knows how to sync photos directly from Facebook to other hosting sites like Flickr or Photobucket, please let me know.)

Now… Photos!

Pay special attention to the album titled “Food I’ve eaten in India“.  Obsessively photographing food is a blessing and a curse from which you, no doubt, reap the benefits.

Sarah Jane

She put them on her blog.  I thought, “Well, that’s convenient.  I’ll just link her blog to mine.”

So I did.

I’m officially 21!

I spent my birthday (March 15) trekking through Haridwar, a holy city northeast of Delhi, with hundreds of thousands of Hindu pilgrims heading to the Ganges for the Kumbh Mela, one of the biggest bathing days in the last 12 years.  That was a monster of a sentence, so I’ll summarize…

I bathed in the Ganges on my 21st birthday.
(And by “bathed”, I mean “dipped my legs in and washed my feet”.)

My feet. In the Ganges.

Sitting on the stairwell leading into the green, green holy river, I let the cold water lap onto my pants and thought about everything you should think about in a moment like that – time, life, death, and love.  I watched a dupatta (Indian scarf) flow downstream slowly, catching on poles and rocks as it went.  The scarf was my favorite color of blue, transposed perfectly against the green Ganga water.  A metaphor for life?  Sure.  Time never stops rushing past, so we grab onto whatever memories are within reach.  We make it downstream eventually, but not without the fatigue of fighting the current.  In a final moment, we just let go and let the water carry us home.

I took off my glasses to see the mountains with the fuzzy vision God gave me.  I thought about Lynette and cried for the first time in weeks.  I smiled at my friends bathing and splashing.  I watched Indians saying prayers of their own.  I washed my face, soaked in the sunset, and kicked my feet through the waves.

Sunset over a holy river.

Another year and, once again, I find myself completely starstruck at how time flows.

I love this life.

Families have been showing up here and there the past few weeks.  Brothers, mothers, cousins, uncles.  The luckiest kids in this program get to show their loved ones the city we’ve all grown attached to, in some way or another.  Personally, my family can’t make it.  Some wouldn’t want to come, and the others just can’t afford the jaunt halfway across the world.  That’s okay; I can’t really afford it either.

However!  I get a consolation prize.  One of my closest friends is currently, right now, at this very moment on a plane to India to see me.  :)  Casey!  Casey is my traveling partner.  Together, we’ve conquered four countries, eight cities, four couchsurfer experiences, four hotels, seven flights, and seven airports.  We’ve gotten lost in city after city, each time finding new and amazing adventures we didn’t mean to have.  Oh yeah… We met in Austin.  We both want to change the world in similar ways (or, rather, be changed by the world in similar ways?), and we’re taking similar routes to get there.  She’s graduating this semester and has chosen to spend her very last Spring Break with little ol’ me in little ol’ New Delhi, India.

I’m excited and nervous all at the same time.  She’ll love it, I’m sure.  But it’s the first time she’ll be exposed to something I’ve already had time to process.  What will she think of the noisy streets and polluted views?  How will she respond to beggars pawing at her knee or hawkers selling flowers and books at stoplights?  A lot of it we went through together in Ghana.  But every country is different, of course.

This isn’t all negative though… I’m crazy excited to watch her eyes as they take in the Taj Mahal and its beauty.  I can’t wait to see the smile she gets as a new culture unfolds before her, a smile I’ve seen a few times already.  She’ll love it here.  And, I can’t wait to bring one more person under the influence of India.

But, what about you?  All of my friends and family that can’t come, don’t want to come, or will never come.  For whatever reason.  I’ve been sporadically offering glimpses into life here, but not enough, I know.  It’s so hard to explain what it feels like to see monkeys and elephants right next to busy highways and colonial style Parliament buildings.

How would you imagine it feels?

I’m not answering that.  :)  Instead, expect some topical updates in the next few days, about things like McDonald’s, the Taj, showers, camels and other random animals, tiny roadside restaurants, and ancient fort adventures.  (Seriously, I’m not just saying.  You will get my words, and you have my word on that.)

<3

Sarah Jane

I spent all day trying to come up with a clever metaphor about homesickness.  Something to explain an ache that doesn’t feel horrible, that hurts like hell but reminds you that having something to miss is worth it.  So… *insert metaphor here*

Lynette passing has been the hardest.  She’s been a part of our extended family since my mom worked in her flower shop as a teenager.  She’s someone who taught me very specific lessons in life, everything from how to make ribbons curly to how to be joyful when there is no joy.  She taught me how to laugh.  That’s what I think I remember most: her laugh, and the fact that it came at the most random and inappropriate times.  Yet, it was always just what we all needed… To laugh.  To be joyful, even through the pain.

When I left America, I had no idea that was our last goodbye.  I knew she was going soon, but it just didn’t occur to me that it would be this soon.  It didn’t occur to anyone.  So, not being there… It’s a kick in the stomach when I think about it.  She was buried today, several hours ago.  Lynette Copeland was buried today.  The words just don’t seem to make sense to me.  It doesn’t register that my friend is gone, not breathing, not here.

But I guess what does register is that she’s no longer in pain.  Her last few weeks were hard, very hard.  Cancer doesn’t take mercy at the end of the battle.  Though it wouldn’t help if anyone else says it to us, it does help to realize it ourselves.  She’s happy now.  She’s with her mother and grandmother, dancing and singing old hymns to her Comforter.  She spent her life helping other people share joy, even up till the end.  Now, she’s engulfed in the same pure and amazing joy.

She deserves it.

And me.  I’ll just keep taking rickshaws to classes and having parathas for breakfast every morning.  I’ll cry at the videos my sister sends me and remind everyone I’m jealous of their 10 inches of snow.  (Seriously, Texas?  You couldn’t have record-breaking snow when I was living in you for the past 21 years?!  Not cool.)  I’ll remember that joy comes with the morning, regardless of how long the night was.

Everything is alright.