what am i doing in this country?
backbackityback.
i spent thirty-five hours in transit today.
that would seem like...i don't know. a paradox? oxymoron? my vocabulary suffered from being around nonnativeenglishspeakers.
i don't think it has hit me yet. either it hasn't, or it won't because it never hit me that i was in india in the first place.
i met an indian man at a cash register at the chicago airport. he asked if i had been in india, where i had been, whether i had seen the gunpati festival--i thought, did you come all the way to america just to sell chocolate bars and newspapers at an airport?
i'm in pittsburgh.
i walked through the chicago airport--after the United Man told me that i was too late to board my flight and would have to wait another three hours--and cried. and when people asked about my hands, i told them that no, it's not permanent, and i even let them touch my hands if they wanted. just to show that it's still skin. but i didn't like the americans at the airport; i wanted to sit with the few indians and speak hindi and offer them a jalebi and ask where they were from. tell them about my plans to go to rajasthan and watch their faces light up with recognition. because india is addictive, and you can't just "visit." you just can't.
my host parents cried when i left.
my host mother re-gave me the little silver box containing saffron. i appreciated it this time.
this morning, bhavin told me, she called me for tea, but i wasn't there. i'm not there.
i'm dislocated.
i'm free next weekend.
i'm back.
i spent thirty-five hours in transit today.
that would seem like...i don't know. a paradox? oxymoron? my vocabulary suffered from being around nonnativeenglishspeakers.
i don't think it has hit me yet. either it hasn't, or it won't because it never hit me that i was in india in the first place.
i met an indian man at a cash register at the chicago airport. he asked if i had been in india, where i had been, whether i had seen the gunpati festival--i thought, did you come all the way to america just to sell chocolate bars and newspapers at an airport?
i'm in pittsburgh.
i walked through the chicago airport--after the United Man told me that i was too late to board my flight and would have to wait another three hours--and cried. and when people asked about my hands, i told them that no, it's not permanent, and i even let them touch my hands if they wanted. just to show that it's still skin. but i didn't like the americans at the airport; i wanted to sit with the few indians and speak hindi and offer them a jalebi and ask where they were from. tell them about my plans to go to rajasthan and watch their faces light up with recognition. because india is addictive, and you can't just "visit." you just can't.
my host parents cried when i left.
my host mother re-gave me the little silver box containing saffron. i appreciated it this time.
this morning, bhavin told me, she called me for tea, but i wasn't there. i'm not there.
i'm dislocated.
i'm free next weekend.
i'm back.