It may be odd to start a piece about my time in India by talking about my time in America. It may be strange to start my story at the very end, after the resolution, after everything has been said and done. But, when I returned to America, people asked me about my time abroad. Friends, family, schoolmates, and professors all greeted me with a “how was India?” upon my return home. The first time I got asked, I was so ashamed because I didn’t really know what to say. It’s probably hard to believe, but after ten weeks living 8000 miles across the globe, all I could muster were things like
“Good!”
“Amazing!”
“So much fun!”
I was floored at myself, scared that maybe the last ten weeks had been a myth, that I had lived on autopilot and that I didn’t really experience much of anything. Every time I was made to respond, I couldn’t say much more than a word.
Looking back at my time in India, I couldn’t find a through-line that summed up how extraordinary it was to travel and study in a place so immersive, so inviting yet discombobulating. To be truly honest, I have never felt the weight of my differences and similarities as a human being as strongly as I felt it there. I can’t speak to the “how was” of my journey. To be honest, I think I would need more time than could ever be socially acceptable to properly answer the question. But, what I do have are anecdotes, lessons, and memories I always go back to when I think of my time.
Although I give short, trite answers in person, when people ask me “how was India?,” I always really want to say, “well, I have a story…”
—
I have a story about a girl first arriving in India.
She hadn’t really travelled much and still she was dauntless on her journey there. Twenty-odd hours of travel later, she walked off the plane, expecting—well I don’t quite know what she thought it would be. But here is what it was: a sea of foreign faces turned to face her as she walked through the airport. She went through customs, and realized, likely for the first time in her life, what it felt like to be the “other.”
That point was further cemented as she stepped into the “foreign/visa” line and watched others go towards the regular citizen entry. She didn’t, wouldn’t admit it to anyone else but herself, but she was scared. As she stood in the line that was the first time she ever felt scared about what her time abroad would be. She was scared as she showed the woman her visa. She was scared when she got her luggage and left the airport. And she stood scared as she strained her eyes through a sea of drivers to find the car that was sent for her.
A man saw her, no doubt taking pity on her shaking, anxious stance and walked up to her. He asked who she needed. She gave him the name and number of the driver. He spoke in what she would come to recognize as Marathi on the phone. He didn’t look back at her, but beckoned her forward to walk as he weaved through the sea of drivers. She did a walk-jog behind this swift man who had her phone, and her last shred of hope for a semi-smooth arrival. He led her to a driver. Before she left him, she asked for the man’s name, and he said he was called Swarmi. She told him she was thankful for the help, and though she didn’t know if he got the exact words, I’m sure the slight tears in her eyes and grateful smile communicated what she couldn’t.
The driver didn’t smile when he saw the girl, only opened her door and packed her luggage in. The steering wheel was on the right side. Weirdly enough, it was this small unfamiliarity that almost sent her over the edge. Her heart paced as the driver began to get out of the airport, onto the roads where cars were crammed bumper to bumper. She was more and more scared as she was left to think about what she had really signed up for. She was essentially alone, left to discover India, but really to discover herself.
After a while, the driver looked over, saw the girl gripping the side of the car seat for dear life. He said, “Don’t be scared, this is India, over there is Bandra West,” he pointed to the city that was across the valley of roofs and clotheslines.
“You will be okay.”
She didn’t feel it then, but the man was right. It was India. She was driving toward Bandra West. And she would be fine, more than okay really. She would be whole.
—
I have a story about Kochi.
It was the girl’s favorite week of the ten although she wouldn’t be sure of it yet. She had been to this place and that. Travelled enough to think she knew what a city could be, all that cities could ever be. But Kochi was different. As she arrived there, the sweltering heat wafted around her, greeting her like a familiar friend.
It was there that she saw green trees and plants stretch on for miles. Her walk to campus everyday felt like a short trip through an oasis. The school was beautiful. They were greeted by smiling faces of staff and students alike. Just a week into studying abroad, the girl finally felt the pangs of anxiety, the longing for home melting away. How could she feel anything but joy?
The cohort had a full schedule to line the days in Kochi. The group ate on large banana leaves, interacted with hundreds of college students just like themselves, and even performed in a play when all was said and done. It was the most rambunctious week, and yet she could not see it getting better than this.
By the time they were on the plane back to Pune, she knew that no matter what occurred or where she went in the next eight weeks, Kochi couldn’t be topped. It’s not that she didn’t welcome the chance, the sheer luck at finding a better city, but in her heart, she knew that when she came back to India, this would be the place she had to see again. Before anything else, she would need to travel far South to remind herself of the beauty of Kochi. Kochi, God’s beautiful city. Kochi, the land of a thousand coconuts. Oh Kochi, the girl thought, what a sneaky city indeed. It was so unexpectedly beautiful, so quiet that she knew that Kochi would have her heart forever.
—
I have a story about “where I’m from.”
While she was there, our girl realized quickly what being the “other” felt like. She was shocked, and then she wasn’t, having grown comfortable being the different one in just about every situation around India. What was most shocking wasn’t the looks, or the stares because they were often accompanied by smiles and warm welcomes. What shocked her most was when people asked her the simple question: “where are you from?”
She would give a multitude of answers. Sometimes she would say “Chicago” or “America.” When she travelled outside of Pune, she would claim it as her homebase, since technically that was where she was living. But no matter what she said, people were never really satisfied with the answer. They were sometimes in awe, sometimes very curious, but never really satisfied with her dubious origins. When she reflected on her wide variety of reactions to where she was “from,” well sometimes the girl just felt very alone. Was she from anywhere? Anywhere valid anyways? Sometimes she wanted to yell into the void that she was from Mars or she was here on a voyage from somewhere they couldn’t imagine because maybe that would be just outlandish enough to be accepted.
She became angry, saddened, and then angry again. But it all stemmed from a restlessness, an insolvability that lied within herself. When she got asked this question enough, where she was from started to feel like “where do you belong?” And to that, she didn’t really have an answer at all. Before she came to India, she hoped that being away from family, her normal everyday society, and the Western world would answer these questions. But, the more she reflected on her feelings of belonging and where they lie, she realized that this was something not easily rectifiable.
Where I am from, is as much where I have been as it is where I will take my business when I go. And while where I am from may not be solid in my mind, where I’m going is much clearer to me.
—
I have a story about a wild boar.
The cohort had just arrived in another city, Aurangabad, another piece of India to explore. She decided to walk around the city after doing the usual duty of dropping bags in the hotel and ascertaining the schedule for the night.
The girl was a little funny, maybe even strange. She decided to walk because she walked at every location they visited. She always dropped her bags, and swiftly turned out the door ready to stretch her legs and see where she would be for the next few days. She had figured out that walking was the best way to get to know your surroundings quickly after seven-odd weeks in a foreign place, hopping from new foreign place to foreign place.
So, she turned right outside the hotel door, and walked behind the building towards a country road. She took in her surroundings, observing every crack in the street, every passerby on a motorcycle. This place was less crowded than any other place they had been so far. It was quieter, more of a countryside. She appreciated this more still view of India. She walked on, taking it all in. She turned another street corner, and came to an abrupt halt. A large wild boar walked ahead of her, crossing the street as she stopped. They made eye contact, her and the boar. She held her breath, assuming that if she stayed still, it wouldn’t charge at her. The boar assessed her, and moved on, continuing to cross the road. She untensed just a bit, but refused to walk any further up, refusing to cross this four-legged beast.
She turned to go back to the hotel, but as she did she saw a man in her path. He asked what she was doing, where she was from, the usual question that a foreigner like her received. She was short with the man, eager to get away from both him and the boar. He noticed her quick glances up the road with her every answer. He caught her attention and told her, “Don’t you be afraid of that animal. He is like us. We are all the universe’s creatures, we all come from one, we are all one.” With these words, she felt the weight, the truth in them. It eased her anxiety just the slightest. He told her to walk on. She nodded her head and began walking but stopped short to look back at the man. She didn’t want to disappoint him, but she asked him to walk with her and accompany her past the universe’s creatures. He laughed a small laugh, and began to walk on, a small bit ahead of her, and they went off down the country road together.
—
I have a story about the god Vithal and the blessing received from him.
The group set off as their teacher led them to yet another murti, another embodiment of a divine deity to behold. In all honesty, the girl had seen so many gods in the past few weeks that they began to slur together. She could probably only name half by the time she had seen them all. But Vithal was different. Visiting Vithal was an experience that none of the group could forget.
The group had driven to Pandharpur to see the holy figure. In a pilgrimage town, they were one of hundreds, maybe thousands that day that purchased tickets to see the murti. When they received them they were told to leave two things: their phones and their shoes. All the girl could think about at that moment was “thank God I wore socks." But her secondary thought was about just how sacred things were about to become as they journeyed toward Vithal’s murti.
They obeyed the rules, turned in their property, and ambled along until they found the line to visit the God. The line was a lot like a Russian nesting doll, because the longer the group walked, the more people seemed to bend around corners and over bridges. The group hadn’t realized it yet, but they would spend quite some time standing in anticipation. They found their way to the back of the long line, shoeless and curious. The girl noticed small dogs and goats that walked along outside the line barriers. She suddenly felt something push into her leg and confused it for one of the animals. She yelled, and garnered a bit of attention amongst the devotees. But! It was actually a clumsy baby boy who fell into her. His parents looked at her, begging for forgiveness. All the girl could do was stare down in amusement. What adorable relief, because quite frankly, she still wasn’t quite so amicable to all of the universe’s creatures.
Time passed, the group became acquainted with the family behind them, and behind them as well. Men came by yelling “chai, chai, chai” in a rhythmic almost melodic tone. After about the third rendition of this song, the professor called the man over. Chais were ordered, and the cohort were happy enough. They were shoeless, chai drinking, phoneless kids (and professor), and only an hour had passed. The line stalled and true to our university’s brand, passionate debate ensued. Without Google to confirm or deny, what is really stopping anyone from saying that a man lives on the moon? That a polar bear walks in the Mojave Desert? Well not much of anything at all. They made jokes, made conversation, and made each other laugh. They felt almost ancient, transported to the distant lands circa the ’90s, before everything was so instantly answered. Then they laughed at themselves again for being so dramatic.
Suddenly, the laughter stopped as the line began to push on. The energy became more impassioned, more intense. People began to sing songs in Hindi about Vithal, about receiving his auspicious sight. The deeper the group moved into the sacred space the more solemn they became. It had been about three and a half shoeless hours, but finally they were at the foot of the temple.
They moved through the space which smelled of incense and prayers. The girl saw pictures on ancient pillars, women jumping up and down, and felt such an intense gratitude to have been in that moment right there in time. There was nothing now, except Vithal, and the joyful blessing which awaited.
When it was her turn to approach Vithal, the girl put head to foot, and in the brief moment of darshan, of auspicious sight, took her opportunity to simply worship. All of the sounds, bells, chatter had ceased for a moment. It was simply one girl and the things that she asked Vittal that only she knew.
She understood that night what it meant to be delayed in her blessings, and yet still felt the satisfaction of things to come. She was so deeply grateful, if not for the blessed darshan of a God, then for the other things that were both worth and the entirety of the wait.
—
I have a story about a bus debate
It was week seven of the program now, nearly approaching eight
There sat the professor cornered by two kids in the moving bus
After weaving through country roads for hours
One might have considered this ardent debate of silliness a plus
First two became three, and soon the entirety had joined in
Suddenly there on those roads in India, the girl felt like she was back at UChicago again
—
I have a story about dragonflies.
When she was there, sometimes the girl would look up to the sky. Sometimes in hope, often lost in a sea of thoughts but always looking for something, something.
One day early on, she looked upwards and saw a great many green bugs flying above her. She saw the crystalline wings that looked like they were sugar spun. She saw those little string-bean shaped creatures flying overhead, and felt calm. What should there be to worry about when this was the case?
So, every so often when she looked to the sky she would see these little green beans sprinting in the sky above. She felt the trap that it was to be wingless, the senselessness there was in being angered by it. She would see those green specks in the air and feel peaceful in a way. Even when she returned to her home in early December, she would sometimes look into the frigid air as the wind whipped her face.
She knew that the green bodies, those whipping wings, couldn’t have followed her home, to the biting cold. But even still, sometimes when she would squint hard enough, she would catch a glimpse of green in the sky.
—
I have a story about turning twenty.
Two decades, twenty years, two hundred forty months all culminated to the moment that was. She could have never guessed that she would be there in Pune for her twentieth birthday. She didn’t know exactly what she should do or could do to celebrate the day. She never did at home, but her friends and family would always make sure she made that her day was special. Now that she was eight thousand miles away from her people she didn’t quite know what to do. What was twenty going to be for her, here, all the way away from home?
Good thing she had made friends here too, all those miles away. A friend asked her to hike. She thought about it. This particular friend was the major move maker of the cohort. Always a plan in place, a site to see. But it was her birthday and she hadn’t planned it herself. Suddenly she was grateful that he was endlessly adventurous. But it was her birthday and so it wouldn’t be early; that was the one concession he would have to give her for the day. And so be it, they left the hotel at around ten in the morning.
It was an hour drive to the mountain. They travelled out of the industrious city of Pune, with eight million inhabitants and shops on every crevice of a corner. Suddenly, four brave souls had found themselves at the base of a very tall sort of mountain called Sinhagad Fort. Surely, the girl thought, they wouldn’t be climbing that whole thing.
But still they began, upward and onward. The projected two hour hike turned into about three, on accounts of the heat and sometimes treacherous ways to keep moving up. They met people and took pictures on the way and got asked about a dozen different ways how they had found themselves hiking in this remote place. The girl liked to believe that something had brought her to honor the Earth on this day, this second decade completed around the sun.
When they reached the top, that was only the beginning of what was left to see. The vendors that they saw at the base of the path were doubled! There was fresh corn with spices, jewelry and hats, nearly everything the girl could think to want, at least on the top of a 6000 foot mountain peak.
The girl explored the open skies at the apex of the mountain with her friends. They watched as the sunset peaked behind clouds and illuminated the city Pune at the horizon. They saw every temple and hostel set up top the mountain. A blond dog followed them part of the way around the mountain top, and at some point the group realized that they began to follow the smart dog in turn.
When it was time to leave the mountainside, it was much too steep and much too dark to go down the mountain the same way the four hikers had come up. And so, the adventurous hikers decided that they had better find something with wheels and a motor to take them down the less steep, but still rather daunting road carved on the other side of the mountain.
They looked for an auto in vain. (“I mean truly,” the girl thought, “what auto driver would wind up this whole to-do just to secure his business?”) They began to think of what else could be done, but there were still people all over the top of the mountain and with this knowledge, the girl knew that surely they would find some way down. After all, the people and our four adventurers all had the same goal: a safe descent down.
The boy who planned the trip went to work asking, bargaining, and negotiating for a ride. When things began to look utterly grim and even more utterly expensive to get a way down, the boy had just found a van packed to the brim with people trying to drive down. The driver saw the four Americans struggling and said he would take them down the mountain for 40 rupees a head.
The girl smiled softly and thought to herself as she rode down the mountainside. The car was packed with random people, those who were generous enough to give them a ride. The girl made small conversation amongst her suddenly not so estranged strangers. But afterwards, she got quiet and pondered about how she spent the first day of 20 for herself.
They came down the mountain, took a bus just as full as the van they left, and caught an auto back to the hotel. All the while, the girl met more people and took more pictures than she could count. Had they too seen the skyline with stars that peaked through tonight? Had they too felt the auspicious air as they hiked up the mountain and met all of these new people in a day? No, she would like to think these things were only for her, a small celebration for her twenty years. On that day, the hike was hers, the mountain hers, the sky hers, and most of all the joy she felt was only for her.
—
I have a story about garba. Dancing is an art, that much was obvious to her. Ballet was a painful contortion of the body to form beautiful snapshots of grace. Dancing was fun, that much could be sure. She remembered back when dancing to her was all slurred words, strobe lights, and dark rooms. But during Navratri, she found out another way that dancing could be. Bright colors and smiles even brighter, that was what met her at the entrance of Garba. She had never heard the term, had never been familiar with the idea of dancing in circles for songs on songs. But when she was in it, it wasn’t a concept to become familiar with, or an idea she had to learn about. Garba simply was. Dressed in her kurta and salwar, she and her friends began finding circles to join. They banged sticks and copied movements. The levels of joy were so high that she didn’t even feel her feet aching by the end of the night. All she felt was joy, and inclusion. She felt what it meant to be uninhibited by fear or judgement. That night, she discovered dancing as a tie that binds. Dancing was a community. It was dandiya sticks, circles formed with strangers turned friends for the night. Dancing was an experience, an immersion. It was hundreds of bodies moving in tandem, hands and feet in symmetric motion.
—
I have a story about roads and paths. She crosses roads everyday there in India. A man would be selling his goods or a woman with her colorful flowers and stems. She would see clotheslines hanging across the top tiers of buildings, or small temples just in front of a path, beaconing her forward. But she never really got to know the insides of neighborhoods, not until her professor assigned her to do just so.
She supposed she should have been grateful; the assignment was simple enough. Go visit this path, thrice at least, once at dusk, dawn, and noon. All she needed to do was sit and observe. But it felt daunting in a way to observe a neighborhood like that. She once again felt her otherness, her alterity peeking through.
But still she went, she walked to the street where a lantern hung above. She walked under and on. She thought about how she should approach observing a neighborhood, a community, a people. On her first visit at noon, she had much too much energy to simply sit and listen. No, she would have to do as she had known for the past ten weeks: learn by walking.
She spent an hour and a half pacing the small strip of road. She must have turned about the road almost 100 times. She garnered stares, which turned into questions, which turned into smiles. She left feeling only slightly more at ease, if only because she found the location she needed to be at.
She visited thrice more after that. Every time she found herself mourning all the times that she passed this path and had no clue what lay just inside.
There was a dog named Mango. He was someone’s dog, but really he was everyone’s dog. Everyone who walked by petted him. Even the suited men on motorcycles would stop to pay their respects to Mango. The girl felt honored the night that he walked over to sniff her. She got to pet his bright golden fur, and got to feel just like one of the many.
There were women who sat around the Ganesh temple. They were the neighborhood’s elders. When the girl first arrived, they stared at her openly. She didn’t know if she sensed malice in their features. But even still she smiled. And then they waved her over. They asked her questions, in Hindi first then, when they heard her speak, small fragments of English. Every visit thereafter, the girl sat with them on the benches around the temple. She made her observations, looking at the same sights that the women had for years. They were watchmen, together.
There was even breakfast. On the last morning, two days before her flight was scheduled for home, she sat in this small neighborhood for more than two hours. Her work was done, observations made. This time was for her, for the sake of the space. She sat on her usual bench, pondering how funny it was that she had a “usual bench.” After a while, one of the neighborhood kids descended the ladder from her home. She walked up to the girl, and asked her if she had had breakfast. Well, come to think of it, the girl thought, she had not. The girl then said that her mother had made food, and wanted her to come eat if she was hungry. And so the girl went up the ladder, into the home of one of the many. She removed her shoes. She ate kichadi and dahi yogurt on the kitchen floor and had a calm conversation with a mother and daughter before school.
On the plane home, she still pondered the road that she was made to study. The kindness, the immediate inclusion felt akin to a fever dream to her. She still understood that roads and paths are just roads and paths. But then again, they are a people, just lives, just history.
—
Now I am home, back in the rotation of familiar faces and traditional school days. I find it hard to reconcile that I was ever gone. Everything feels as it was. Until I’m reminded once again.
I take extra notice of the “Om” necklace around someone’s neck. I look on with admiration when I see people dressed in their traditional kurtas and saris. I feel like the small things that never held much significance before have become small time machines that put me back in the story.
Writing about it now, I think that the only way to describe my trip abroad is personal. I have learned things about myself and my abilities to take in new environments that I will carry with me whenever and wherever I will go. Most of all, I now understand that wherever I go, I can’t outrun myself. I am the fun I make, the peace I seek, and the experience I will have. I am the common denominator of my travels because wherever I go, well, there I will be.