At 8:45 I go out to
find an auto. I stand on the side of a busy road and wait, and wait, and
wait. There are plenty of autos—but they
already have passengers. I’m the kind of
person who hates being late, and REALLY hates it when I have to wait on people
(when it’s habitual). But, it’s
India. What’s being ten or twenty or
thirty minutes late? Heck—what’s being two hours late?
So, an auto finally
slows near the place where another lady and I are waiting. I have the advantage of the autowallah
choosing to pull up next to me because of my Gori disadvantage in what it will
cost me.
I tell him the neighborhood
& section where I’m going. When we
get there, I say “C-Block” and we drive through K block, and J block, and then
finally he decides he might not know where he’s going. So while we’re stopped on a two lane road, one
of the 3 autos that are lined up next to us tells us we need to turn around. This means that immediately after the autowallah
that gave us directions moves forward an inch or two, we turn so that our auto
is perpendicular to the oncoming traffic, let a few motorcycles and “scooties”
pass, and then finish the u-turn.
When we arrive at C
Block, I am utterly amazed that there is a billboard-esque sign that gives a
map of the B and C block, WITH the numbers of the houses at the appropriate
places. Don’t worry though—it’s still India! The sign tells us that while C block is in
face a big rectangular block, B Block is about 4-5 blocks in sort of a U shape. They wouldn’t want to be too organized…
We finally arrive
at the home of my new teacher, and I sit through the world’s worst class
ever. She said my hindi is good for having
been here only a short time. THEN she taught
me how to say “I am a girl. I am from
America.” Now…I can say (slowly) “If I
would be in Egypt this month, an Egyptian woman would teach me how to make
Egyptian food, and if she is like Indian women, she would say ‘EAT! EAT!’ and I
would become fat.” So, why was I “learning”
this? Pata nahi hai… Additionally, every
time I started a sentence and tried to figure out how to make the postpositions
and verbs correctly, she said the sentence for me. It was never what I wanted to say, and she
doesn’t listen very well. In short, I
think I got a taste of what Indian schoolteachers are like—as well as the line
of Indian authority and respect. I now understand
why expat kids are homeschooled or go to international private schools. Lesson learned for any potential children I
may have or adopt. J
After the world’s
worst hindi class (kudos to my engineering friend who tutored me with no teaching
experience and did 100x better) I agree to come back tomorrow. After all, she’s the friend of my hostmom and
if I don’t come back at least once, I’m probably going to cause some issue
between them. But I make an excuse for
tomorrow being my last day with her, because I dread coming even tomorrow.
Immediately after,
I go to a not-so-cheap coffee shop and order a mango frappe—that should make up
for the rough morning class. Mango is “aam”
in hindi, but I guess they thought I said “um…frappe” so I got a real coffee
frappe. I would rather cuddle with the
rat that haunts my bedroom than taste coffee ever again. But, knowing it was my accent that caused the
order and that I’ll go to the shop again, I drank it politely while my barista
watched me work through presumptive verb tenses.
Thankfully, the day
got much better as my teacher at the academy reviewed my verbs and only made a
few corrections on the 10 worksheets I’d done over the weekend. After the other morning class, I have now
learned to appreciate the $25 per hour I spend at the school J I feel like
in the past week I’ve really progressed—which is an encouragement to keep up studying
those impossible verbs.
My teacher has had
an arranged marriage, and my heart reaches out to her because her husband is just
not interested in trying to bond. I pause being a student for a few minutes and
become just a friend with a willing ear.
She doesn’t know I’m praying for her heart in more than one way.
Class ends on a
good note and then the world’s most beautiful nap happens in the midst of my
homework. I tend to sleep much better
when I know the rat is probably asleep or at least hiding from the
sunlight.
I decide I need to
go for a walk—which is really just an excuse to eat ice cream—so I head out
into the beautiful humid weather. My
hair is an absolute disaster, but really, is that going to mean any less stares
happen on the street? Nope, so there’s no reason to fix the mess my pillow
created atop my head.
I order a scoop of
kulfi ice cream, and again, I somehow got coffee ice cream. I give up.
I have learned to actually enjoy tea AND olives since I’ve been here, so
maybe this is God’s way of teaching me to not despise coffee, too.
Then I continue my
walk to the market. My sari blouses will
be two days late, but that’s expected.
Because it’s India.
A woman passes
me. Only with the package on top of the
five gallon bucket on her head is she taller than me. Another woman who’s about
that height passes me with her chubby 7 year old son. I can’t help but chuckle at the likelihood
that he’ll never reach my shoulders.
I buy a red rose
for all of 20 cents. I’m sure it’s
probably twice the going rate for Indians, but the flowerwallah was cute as he
was wrapping it with ribbons and some flair, and giving me a really big smile with
an attempt at not-so-discreet eye contact.
Bollywood has captured this perfectly.
At a construction
site a woman (who has this indescribable strength/beauty/intriguing features
that I’ve found in many Indian women of lower status) makes eye contact with me
as she carries 10 bricks on her head to the worksite.
My patialas (harem
pants) at this point begin sticking to my legs because it’s REALLY humid. I stop at India’s version of Starbucks,
Coffee Café Day (it’s everywhere) to study and relish the world’s best caramel
brownie. I listen to a guru counsel a
girl who seems to be struggling in her arranged marriage. His advice is off, and I can’t help but yearn
for her to know the Truth, as his advice just isn’t good enough to fix the
situation.
At this point, I head
home, not really sure that I’m heading home.
Some men start to walk a little too near me (for the time of it being
dusk) and I begin a phone conversation with my imaginary husband, who makes me practice
my hindi. The conversation lasts awhile
as the men were not really increasing in distance from me. It’s a good thing my imaginary husband is
really sweet and VERY patient with my hindi when we talk on the phone J
I passed P block and
then W block, which I’m not sure how, but is next to E block, which is one of three
places from which I can find my home. I
smile at an aunty on the street, catch myself staring at the other white people
I see, and crane my neck to see the cricket games through the trees.
In my neighborhood,
I head bobble hello to the man ironing clothes next to the park, hold my breath
while walking past the overflowing dumpsters, and admire the gorgeous, sleek,
and fit cats rummaging through the garbage.
I scoot to the side of the road only once out of the 20 times I am
honked at, smile at the cutest, most serious four year old boy carrying a
backpack that must weigh as much as him, and open the gate to our
building.
I walk in the door, take off my chappals, and almost
immediately step on the pieces of a chicken bone that the dog had sometime
earlier been enjoying. After washing my
feet, smiling at the maid who will not talk to me, and grabbing some purified
water, I come into my room, switch on the A/C and my laptop, and rip off my
long pants in exchange for the much preferred shorts. I cringe at my fluorescent white legs, plop
down on my not-exactly-soft bed, and write this—so that maybe you can picture
my beautiful India and see why I want to come back.
