Silent Night

Going on exchange is like watching night fall.

In the beginning, you’re watching a sunset. Too many beautiful new colors and sensations flood you and overwhelm you completely, leaving you with feelings of confusion, awe, and contentment.

It is all too brief, for darkness soon falls. You don’t recognize anything around you. You feel so lost and very, very alone. The loneliness hurts in ways you never thought it could because you are scared that no one is there for you in the blackness. You fear that nothing good can come out of this darkness.

Then, suddenly, one by one, the stars come out. At first, you barely notice them, but suddenly you look around to find that the inky black has burst into a shower of diamonds around you. Out of the midnight blue, the darkness never seemed so bright. You can see this world in a new, beautiful way by starlight.

As soon as your eyes adjust, as soon as you can fully appreciate it, the sun begins to rise. Soon, it will all be over.

Jee le zaraa.

South India Tour (October/November 2012)

I think one of the most amazing things about India is that, no matter where you go, you’ll find something completely different—different food, different language, different customs, different people.

My tour of the South including, Cochin, the capital of India’s southernmost state, Kerala. Cochin is a sleepy town that had once been occupied by the Portuguese. With picturesque (if not-so-clean) beaches, lovely, musty churches, and an eclectic old synagogue, Cochin has its own special brand of exotic old-world charm.

Chinese Fishing Nets in Cochin

The assortment of antique shops were my favorite. Each one seemed like a dusty old mystery novel, crying out to be opened. From the bright heat of the narrow streets, I could barely make out stone idols that loomed out of the cool, dark storefronts. Granite Buddhas and brass crucifixes lay side by side, having been equalized by the march of time. Gleaming maritime devices stood in lines like proud golden soldiers. Tattered silk hangings adorned the walls. I loved looking into those stores, poking my head through the peeling teak doors and waiting for my senses adjust to the peace and quiet within. I loved squinting through the mystical gloom to see the imposing shapes take form as items from Cochin’s rich past. I loved those little antique shops as though they were individual people because, to me, it seemed like they could tell me the history of the world.

Houseboats on Kerala's Backwaters

I also got to see rural Kerala, famous for its ‘backwaters’—an intricate web of rivers that wind through dense jungles dotted with villages and rice paddies. We were fortunate enough to take a luxury houseboat along the rivers themselves, floating idly past the most verdant, jewel-bright forests I’d ever seen. The water was murky and green, but it smelled fresh. Nets of leafy plants spanned the water, dotted with fat purple blossoms. A few cheery little bungalows, painted in shades of lemon and lilac, squatted by the riverside as though they were sari-clad aunties doing their laundry. As our boat made its way further into the wilderness, the sunny weather gave way to the fading monsoon. I felt immensely peaceful watching empty green fields and thick forests roll by in the rain. After a long, quiet evening docked by an empty rice paddy, I saw a single man walk along the riverside slowly, his umbrella aloft. I hope he appreciated the serenity as much as I did.

Shanti

This is where your tea comes from.

Hairpin turns filled the narrow jungle roads that led up to Munnar, one of Kerala’s most famous mountain towns. Our driver drove with the kind of reckless abandon exclusive to Indian roads, and the morning’s breakfast churned in my stomach. The wild ride up was worth it, however. Munnar is a stunning town tucked high, high into the Western Ghats. In spite of being at a mere 8000 feet, cool, misty clouds enshrouded it, making me feel much further from the rest of the world. Orderly rows of meter-high tea bushes blanketed the steep, lush mountainsides. After four months of harsh Mumbai pollution, the cold, clear air refreshed my lungs. For the most part, blankets of fog obstructed my view, but one day, I found a viewing platform that overlooked a vast, fertile valley. Tiny white chapels mingled with the small marble temples that dotted the dense green forest, and I could barely see the narrow dirt roads connecting them. A slim brown river cut its way through the vast floor of the ravine. Even more mountains lumbered out of the mist like gigantic ships on a pale grey sea. In spite of the fact I live in a country of 1.2 billion, the world felt so uninhabited for just a moment.

The World

Palace in Tamil Nadu

I had the privilege of visiting one of the most famous Hindu temples in the south—the Shree Meenakshi temple located in Madurai, Tamil Nadu. I felt that this majestic, colorful structure was one of the greatest physical metaphors I’d ever seen for the spirit of India. This temple is unlike any other—massive, sprawling, and so, unbelievably full of life and color. Six towering pyramids rise up around the temple structure like ornate sentries. They are carved and painted with every scene imaginable from Hindu lore. The rainbow itself seemed to roar down their sides like a waterfall. The inside assaulted my senses like a wild carnival. Indian brides and grooms, heavily adorned and breathless with joy, stood with their backs to the walls as excited tourists snapped photos of them. Priests, pilgrims, tourists, men, women, children, animals, and statues lurched towards me from every direction. Grim, basalt sculptures of the Hindu pantheon contrasted beautifully with the brightly-painted walls and ceilings. Incense wafted out from shrines, barely masking the scent of a thousand sweating bodies pressed together in such a small space. While one might think a temple should be serene, the voices of The Shree Meenakshi temple can only be described as a wild tornado of culture and color.

Kanyakumari

Kanyakumari is the quintessential South Indian village—a hodgepodge of vibrantly-colored bungalows speckled with bright white marble shrines to Catholic saints and Hindu deities alike. However, the view is unlike any other. Kanyakumari is located on the southernmost tip of India, meaning that, in its waters, three bodies of water converge: the Arabian Sea to the West, the Indian Ocean to the South, and the Bay of Bengal to the East. From our hotel’s rooftop terrace, we could see the sun rise over the water which shimmered in three different colors.

The last night of our trip took us to one of India’s most popular beach areas, Goa. I remember getting thrown into a pool wearing jeans and a t-shirt, beach-combing against a grey sky, and swinging from the vines of a Banyan tree near the hotel’s restaurant. Our beach faced west, and as the sun sunk into the sea, its dying light cast my friends in magnificent black silhouettes against a sky of pink and gold. It was the perfect ending to my trip.

Time flies like an Arrow

I am coming up on the end of my fourth month here in Mumbai, and I feel really blessed. I have learned so much and grown in many ways. The last couple of months have been jam-packed with activity for me, and I am painfully aware that I haven’t updated since September.

Since then, I visited a spectacular Buddhist pagoda, walked in a parade, learned a traditional dance, toured South India, and nearly deafened myself with Indian fireworks.

In the middle of September, I visited the Global Vipassana Pagoda. Completed in 2010, this pagoda contains the largest unsupported dome in the world. Compared the spectacular golden exterior, the pagoda’s interior is downright stark: a huge expanse of hardwood floor beneath a vast dome of concrete blocks. A guru sat with about 20 people in the center of the pagoda. People who wish to enter into the pagoda to meditate must stay for ten days, and they are forbidden from communicating in any manner, verbal or nonverbal.

Pagoda Exterior

At the end of September, I ventured with the other exchange students to Pune, a small town of about 3 million that’s four hours away. We went there for the Ganesha Chaturthi parade. Ganesha Chaturthi is one of the most popular Hindu holidays for Mumbaikars and Maharashtrans. The festival is celebrated with ten days of merry-making and worshipping Lord Ganesh. On the tenth day, the Ganesh idols—some no bigger than a loaf of bread, others thirty feet tall—are all immersed in a body of water. In Mumbai, it’s done at one of the beaches, but in Pune, Ganesh was immersed in a river cutting through the city.

All the exchange students wore traditional clothes for the occasion. The boys wore white kurtas and brightly colored turbans, and the girls wore a spectacular array of saris. We walked for four hours, a group of dancing women behind us and a line of enthusiastic drummers in front of us. Everyone wanted a picture of the foreigners in Indian clothes. I myself posed with a myriad of small children as their parents eagerly took pictures, and one of my friends gave an interview for the Times of India. It was a phenomenal afternoon!

Lord Ganesh

Me, doing the traditional Indian Tilt-a-Whirl dance

Dancers in the Parade

My computer battery is dying, so I will write about two other festivals, as well as my trip to South India, later.

Photo Credit--Miguel Ponce

I have really found my place here in Mumbai. It’s insanity, but it’s fun. Sometimes it’s frustrating, but life here is just so interesting and different, especially compared to my life in Wyoming. I can’t believe it’s almost half over…

Perpetual Motion

Some people are just better at enjoying the ride.

I’ve been in a downward spiral for the past week and a half, and it’s been very, very rough. Now well into my seventh week in India, I assumed that my troubles were over. My first month was difficult, but I grew, I adjusted, and I made peace with all the doubts and what-ifs. However, all the negativity has just been swarming me since the beginning of September. I keep asking myself, is India really the right place for me? Can I do this for 9 more months? Am I crazy for coming here? So many questions that have yet to be answered.

On Monday the 10^th, when I left school, I was in the same state I’d been for about a week: I was on the verge of tears. My kind, kind friends invited me out with them, but I declined, not wanting my bad mood to ruin their good time. Instead, I walked.

Lately, long walks have been the only thing capable of improving my mood. The sidewalks of Mumbai are all tiny disaster zones, home to the homeless, bed of mangy stray dogs, storefront for the entrepreneurial fruit seller, and toilet for the rest of the city. Needless to say, it’s quite necessary to keep your wits about you when you go for a walk. Concentrating on not going knee-deep in one of the open sewers is a really great way to get your mind off things, I’ll be perfectly honest.

So I walked. The sun blazed overhead as I walked passed familiar hang-outs, past landmarks, and past all things familiar until I was good and lost. Oddly, I had come upon a posh little bakery, so I went inside, ordered a bagel slathered in Nutella, and cried like an idiot for a few minutes. Doubt lay like a crushing burden on my shoulders. What was I doing in India? Why didn’t I choose someplace sane, someplace normal? I’ve been asking myself those questions so often that they’re starting to go stale. I only stayed for about thirty minutes—just enough time to eat, weep, and pay.

I left the restaurant and quickly realized that I was very lost. My perspective changed a little then—being lost wasn’t a misfortune, it was an opportunity. So I began to walk again, and each step soothed my heart and calmed my mind until I could barely remember what I had been upset about. Even though my sandals rubbed familiar sore spots on my feet, I started feeling happier. Even the people around me seemed to transform from a homogenous and intimidating sea of faces to a group of individuals who—quite like me—were simply trying to make their way in this often-overwhelming but entirely unique city. Feeling a little braver than I had felt in a very long time, I asked for directions to the train station (in Hindi, no less!) I could only understand the first line of instructions, so I would meander from street to street, stopping in interesting shops and just generally wandering. Being lost was somewhat cathartic. Not only did the long, warm afternoon allow me to explore the streets of Mumbai, but it also gave me time to go through the avenues of my fears, my worries, my hopes, and my goals. After asking about a dozen sleepy security guards, sari-clad, aunties, and eager young schoolboys in crisp blue uniforms, I was almost sad to see the station come into sight. In getting lost, I had found so much more than my way.

Mud, Sweat, and Tears

 

Mumbai is harsh, but Mumbai is also forgiving. Even though I've been here for a month, August 27 was my first day of school. And I was late. The day did not have a promising start: monsoon season has begun in earnest here, and it was pouring rain. I got up about 3 hours before I needed to leave, and I had a leisurely morning. By the time I left at 10:45, the streets had become rivers of filth. I waited at my bus stop with my umbrella, and a middle aged businessman leaped on a bus as traffic forced it to a halt. Assuming it was my bus, I followed him. This was my first mistake. The bus began to take me through the familiar route along Marve Road and past my church. I gave the ticket taker the usual fare for a ride to the train station: ten rupees. He gave me three in return. My second mistake was not realizing something was wrong then. Thanks to the rain, a thick layer of condensation covered the inside of the windows, turning familiar sights into a haze of color. I caught a glimpse of an empty granite pedestal and the tiniest hint of worry entered my brain: that didn't look at all familiar. Within 20 minutes, the ticket taker had asked me what I was still doing on the bus (in Hindi, of course). Fortunately, he thought the hopelessly lost and chronically stupid foreigner was a highly amusing sight, so he didn’t fine me.

The bus roared away as rain poured, and I wrestled with my umbrella for a few moments. I began to backtrack, fighting back tears as panic began to set in. A few things were now painfully clear to me.

1. I had no idea where I was, nor did I know where I needed to go.

2. I was lost in a bad neighborhood in a city where I don’t speak the language, and I did not have a cellphone.

3. I was going to be late for my first day of college.

The rain flooded the sewer ditches as I trudged up the road, washing murky brown water over my sandal-clad feet. Soon I was soaked up to my thighs. I felt deeply aware of the stares I was drawing in my current state, so I swallowed my growing hysteria and tried to look like I knew what I was doing. I tried to retrace the bus route with little success. My wet rubber sandals stuck to my feet with every step I took, and soon I had blisters that stung in the filthy water. Shortly, I found myself on a main road, but I had no idea which way to go to find the train station. Five rickshaw drivers refused to take me. I think the sixth one had some pity on me because, rather than taking me the long way, he took me to a foot bridge that went over the tracks and told me in broken English where to go from there. I got on my train at 12:10 for 12:30 college in hysterics.

Bandra station, where I get off the train to go to college, is a beautiful colonial building that houses what so many people find frustrating about India: cripplingly inefficient bureaucracy and people too fed up to care about consideration and  social contract. The downpour made it worse. A huge queue of people wrapped around the front of the station, with every last person waiting for a rickshaw. A bored and cranky police officer directed the rickshaws through two narrow lanes, shouting at queue-jumpers. We all waited meekly beneath our umbrellas as rickshaws came and went, two by two. A man completely eschewed the queue and hopped into one of the rickshaws in line, resulting in the police officer blocking the rickshaw and shouting at the passenger for a full two minutes. This little exchange stalled the already slow-moving line, and I felt acutely aware of my lateness. At long last, I caught a rickshaw to school. The stress of my morning finally reduced me to tears, and I snuffled through the five minute ride to the college.

When I arrived, I learned that classes had been canceled. Again.

I stumbled home that afternoon as a wet mess. My host grandmother, who doesn’t speak much English, was surprised to see me early. I gave her the abbreviated version: “I got lost.” She sympathetically offered me half of her tea (having only brewed enough for herself) and said simply, “It’s how you learn.” A fierce affection for my host family filled me because I’d been half-heartedly telling myself that all day.  Nothing could be truer.

Mumbai is a difficult place. It's hard to learn who you can trust, who you can rely on, how to stay out of trouble, and how to enjoy yourself. Difficulty fosters growth, however, and I have grown so much since my arrival here a month ago. If Monday's events had occurred even two weeks ago, I would be frustrated and defeated, and I'd probably beg my parents to bring me home. Now I can simply shake this off and learn from my mistake. I have nine months left to see the sights, meet the people, and understand the culture. I have only nine months left to learn Mumbai. Why waste it with feelings of frustration and despair? I have grown and I have learned, but I've barely begun.