Call a Friend

And I went off and saw things I’ve never seen

I really wanted you there

But…

-          “Long Flight”

Future Islands

But the song goes on. And there always is a but. When you know it is real, but the reality of walking out, and waiting communicates otherwise. When you wonder if your niece, to who you are one of a few male figures she trusts, will see you as a stranger when you return and not give you a besito. When you think of all that a four letter word HOME represents.

Last week I wasn’t having the best of days so I called up a friend while sitting on the balcony watching the monsoon and lightening. He posed a question to get me refocused “What have you gotten out of your experience in India so far?” knowing it is not a question that could be answered in a single sentence or even quickly. But that if you were doing it right, that question would send you spiraling across hundreds of mental images still being processed. Insights, colors, laughs, questions, dishes, similar struggles, new challenges, curiosities and sights that stop you in your tracks. All only possible with the practice of presence. That’s why you are there (well that and my job!), he said, and to come back and share those stories.

When he first posed the question, I sat there in silence I first went to the surface level of observations I have had. The initial observations I had the first weeks that revolved around “similarities and differences.” I realize though in relating these, it seems like a rather confiding albeit Western approach to trying to categorize and relate to place as immense and complex as India. So yes, that aside, that was where I originally went with his question. The observations that hit me in the first few days and I am sure will become commonplace as I make this my home for the next few months, like:

The unexplained pleasant smell after it rains, coming up from the streets. Except here a similar sensation mixed with the red clay-like earthy dirt, a subtler but equally desirable post rain smell. How green it is. All this rain, temperament climate and the upkeep of former British established parks give Bangalore the nickname Garden City. Even when you drive out of town it becomes wild green. And the varieties of trees, I don’t want to even begin to guess the kinds because most I have never seen before. I learned the name of one tree, known commonly as the rain tree, an expansive tree that produces a large canopy of thin leaves, with no under foliage other than the outside sphere. It’s beautiful. 

Another major difference, this one about myself, is that I am snacking more and eating a lot more sweets. That might not seem noteworthy to some, but knowing me it is. I tried to find a reason why this is, but settled with the fact Indian treats are something else! I have just scrapped the surface, I want more, and am addicted. Last weekend my coworker brought me a bag of deep fried and battered vegetables from his bakery, which I tried the first week here and kept pestering him for more.

Celebrities and athletes. I took the daily newspaper to work to ask my coworkers who this one dude is, I see his face on everything, TV ads, posters, soaps, honestly I wake up and it’s the first human face I see on something, his huge smile, 8 pack, and signature wavy hair. Indian version of Brad Pitt I assumed. “Yep, pretty much,” a coworker confirmed. One of THEE guys in Bollywood. Another later said, “If it is two things that are bigger than the gods here, its cricket players and movie stars.” With its own flare, cultural markers, entertainment industries and a billion plus market, India much like the USA produces a lot for its own consumption, why look elsewhere? There are regional outlets, Sandalwood for example the nickname of this state’s movie industry that produces movies in Kannada, the local language. But there are also national prides, Indian cricket team playing Pakistan. And with a sport like cricket, the imports take a back seat. Sad to say Miley Cyrus and Beiber are still vaguely known here. Still some of my coworkers said they perfected their English by watching American films like Star Wars, Martin Scorsese films, and American Pie. On a discussion on dating culture, someone referenced American Pie and asked how real of a depiction it was of the realities of America. More on that subject at a later time.

Some other similarities in one degree or another with the American psyche if there is such a thing: the sacrifices some are called to make and answer to provide for their families, optimism, a colorful and diverse history. And one more, parks are meant for lovers. 

During my volunteer year, two simple themes that kept popping up and I sought to carry away with me were the practice of presence and the value of another’s stories. Practicing presence as a volunteer teacher was not too hard to do, kids require it. But you can lose sight of that easily, when you don’t have kids pulling at your shirt to tie their shoes, a student running up to you screaming about a bloody nose, and the same kid later making you nearly cry laughing as they recount their weekend adventures complete with kicks, jumps and “and then and then…” And when you aren’t present, the art of listening is lost and whatever you absorb from those stories is distorted. You fail to acknowledge the invitations to enter into someone else’s space. The value of stories was something I always appreciated, I guess just hadn’t ascribed as principle truth, a value to guide your life by. Over the course of the last two years though I recall a specific few stories, and the corresponding straining of every part of your body to receive those next shared words, eagerness to absorb each ounce, either oblivious to your surroundings or aware that it enhanced the story, and the welling emotions inside you. And always the content intermittent silence and my trivial offerings of similar experiences of joy, rebellion, pain, laughs or simply my appreciation or admiration. Last summer when driving up to the Sierras and my Nana and I were the only ones awake and she shared of first trip namesake grandfather to his childhood home in Death Valley and standing in the frame of his old house and him driving her to the top of the hill to see the town, sitting outside an old corner Italian restaurant in the Denver Highlands with a teacher from the school I volunteered at and hearing his stories of growing up near Federal and coming here as a kid for spaghetti and meatballs, and the excited and out of breathe stories of cousins at the end of camping trip recounting the events of this trip and preceding ones. These experiences, and their permanence, all in part owed to presence and the inherent value of another’s story.  

So what have I experienced so far? I will continue to keep those words of my friend and let them sink in, deeper than the heavy monsoon droplets of rain that seem to reach your bones.

While this post has gone on long enough. Apologies for the rambling. But to keep it short. I have experienced waking up just after sunrise on the side of the road next to sugar cane fields and mango groves, I have tasted the salinity of the Bay of Bengals as I swam about until I saw a jellyfish and ran out, I have seen kids and grown adults point with excitement at wild monkeys spotted as we waited in line to visit the Golden temple, I have caught buses that assumed would stop but don’t but you must run and leap on to, I have listened to a coworker tell me of his grandfather’s farm and the way of agrarian life that is so different from the growing cities, I have taken a autorickshaw one way and out of frustration with them, desire to explore, need to move, walked the rest of the way and luckily found my apartment. How have these experiences made me feel? What do I know so far? All things for another post, another time.

To the friend on the other end, thank you. 

And at the end of the song, Samuel Herring of Future Islands belts out:

AND I WENT OFF AND SAW THINGS I’VE NEVER SEEN!



To be continued...