Lights and Fire

Well I guess the shark and squid teamed up with the goat and quail because a few days after my return from Puducherry I became ill. I ignored it at first as the flu but my boss suggested I see a doctor, so a friend took me to the hospital. Despite my body aches and pain I was giddy to go, experiencing another country’s healthcare system struck me as a chance for a case study. Admittedly if I destined to the emergency room or for a surgery I might not have had the same sentiment. After a payment for the entire bill that equaled my co-pay at home and an examination, the doc said I likely got a bacterial bug from something I ate. I tried to pinpoint which street side stall, shack or restaurant was the culprit. Weak western guts.  

Take this, this and this and get some rest. I was relegated to my apartment that weekend. Being sick is never fun but especially when you are far away from home. Lounging about in the rain, in my moment of sickness and weakness, I had my first acknowledgements of homesickness. Disarmed and alone, I wrestled with these thoughts as I tried to sleep over the body aches and sweats. My bedroom became a battleground.

Well timed calls from friends and Facetime sessions with my family jolted me, quieting my restless mind and allowing me respite to heal. Feeding off their support and finding the strength to do so much more than just kick a stomach bug. And when everyone you have ever known is asleep somewhere far off, the company of the muses. The song from Fleetwood Mac that reminds you of childhood camping trips to the Sierra with your family, serenading the landscapes of the Southwest, as you sit in the backseat feeling safe and secure surrounded by baggage with your Gameboy and blanket. The song from Crosby, Stills and Nash that represents the dream your parents had when they settled down and created a family, and how everything that has been revealed is greater than that dream could have ever imagined. The song from Van Morrison that was the song to this past summer and evenings on the porch with your mom, dad or whoever had stopped by that evening, and over a cold beer you could close your eyes and still smell the coastal sage brush from your beach trip, hike or bike ride.  They, along with a makeshift army of carefully arranged stones, the sentinels of your soul.

And about my apartment, the mementos of true love and support that allows you to jettison off into a future unknown, and in the face of momentary lapses of self-doubt and withdraw, continue on renewed. The realization those pillars that I built my life on will be there to greet me when I return and share our stories. The ceremonious letter my nana has written for me, before each move whether heading back to school, moving to Denver. The picture of my niece by my bed stand. Pictures of smiling friends and family on my walls. Drawings from the students of Annunciation. I miss my Cardinals.

I spent a lot of time on the balcony and when the sun broke through the clouds and I felt stronger than my body aches, walking around the village for tea and bakery treats. And the never-in-a-hurry sit on a cinder block, watching people in the street or games of cricket in the empty lot. And doing the things I kind of lost track of before India, playing (loose word) my guitar, writing and reading (I blame that in part to one or two god awful books that started my year).

“When many gather in the sky and circle about, we believe it is going to rain” someone had told me of the hawks over Bangalore, and almost every evening they did and it rained for a week. And from my balcony I dutifully watch them. Gliding above the neighboring courtyard and its sole tree in the center. Twisting and turning through clothing lines and the fluttering sheets on the neighboring rooftops. Diving and spinning in dogfights with other birds. Circling above unfinished skyscrapers popping up everywhere. I have long since known a porch or balcony is the most valuable place in a house.

My health improved and coincided with the gathering festivities surrounding Diwali. In every doorway were draped ribbons or marigold and jasmine, cars adorned with palms, and markings of thanks given to the items in life that we owe our livelihoods to. These blessing were a tribute to Lakshmi, Vishnu’s wife and goddess of prosperity. In every profession and age, people marked the tools that sustained them, kept them safe, and fed them, with a blessing of thanks and wish for future prosperity. The front car lights that illuminate our way, the office doorway that provides families a living each time we walk into work, the food seller’s street cart that allows him to display his offerings of nourishment to others . In the evenings oil lamps were lit in windows and doorways to guide Lord Rama home, and in the final days the fireworks competed with colorful balcony and rooftop lights for attention in the skies of Bangalore. And if your neck got tired from looking up, at the feet of doorways the beautiful Ragoli sand designs crafted by older women bent over in their saris, accented with pedals and lamps.

To an American it was a mix of Fourth of July and Christmas. Families in homes and festivities in the streets.

At night some of my coworkers joined me at my apartment to shoot off the fireworks I had purchased on the outskirts of town, where they were manufactured and then sold in the temporary buildings that popped up to unload a year’s worth of firework stock for the four day holiday.

As we ran up the flights of stairs, each exploding firecracker made us run faster and skip steps, eager not miss anything and excited for the pending show of our own. From the unlocked rooftop we had a view for miles of fireworks bursting over Bangalore, and immediately set up our poured out beer bottle for a stand and lit the smaller ones first with candles. Flower pots and sparkles, crackers and butterflies. We got bolder as our stock grew smaller and boyish laughs got louder. Taking one of the remaining butterfly firecrackers (called this because they changed colorful and flew through the air in random changing directions, making a fluttering sound of wings) I lit it and just when I went to toss it off the roof, it caught in my hand and shot backwards towards everyone else gathered. We killed over laughing. With tears in my eyes I examined the blacks of my hand. We saved the largest rockets for last, the ones marketed like some sort of Indian scud missiles. After a few that just exploded on the ground, we got a good fly off the last one.

On the final night of Diwali, on the backseat of a friend’s Royal Enfield, my kurta and ears catching the night air, we went flying through the streets under the exploding skies of Bangalore. Shot off from roofs, sides of the road, and alleys. I stupidly asked how fast this thing goes and we picked up speed. Faster and faster. Festival of lights and of hope.

I’m back.

Challo bye. 

Indian Roadtrip

Our last stop in Bangalore was to buy jasmine from sellers gathering before sunrise for the weekend market, to adorn the statue of Ganesha on the dashboard in well wishes of a “safe journey.”  It was just after 3 am when we started off and exited the city limits and shortly after crossed into the neighboring state of Tamil Nadu. A Tata truck with neon lights, equivalent to our 18 wheelers that traverse the interstates at night, flew towards us flashing their high beams and blaring their sequenced horns. This wouldn’t be unusual, to see an oncoming 10 ton truck in your lane except that we were on the national highway. There are rules here! Cones, dividers, if not speed limits at the very least signs that read “Speed thrills but kills.”

“Um can he do that?” I asked after I sat up alert in the backseat and the lights and noise passed and before us returned the darkness and silence of the highway.

“It’s India” my coworker friend said, “Incredible India.” We laughed and the music continued and the four of them joked in their mother tongue and I just smiled, a real smile. My first Indian road trip. The nation with the largest stretch of road second only to America. Eisenhower highways, the road leads West, Grapes of Wrath, Route 66, roadside diners, ghost towns, the car. I wondered what this would reveal about India. And that maybe, as at least I interpreted, that look some give you when on the road, the one that conveys the same message you have seen on faces elsewhere scattered across the Southwest, is universal. Where are you coming from? Where are you going? A look from the ones who dream of mobility in faraway towns and villages, even in the big cities you pass through. Not a look concerned to find an answer to who are you? The need to move isn’t an exclusive tenant of some American “exceptionalism.”  

I realize in writing this a few weeks after the fact is a disservice to my recollection. But after such a long writing hiatus in general, I accept infrequency as a side effect of my return. But I disclosed that to you in my first post, that my sharing might be sporadic. And, as in the following retelling of the trip, I will also call upon the transparency clause of my first post. For many reasons. When I return home I can share with you over some laughs the parts that even after a few weeks of not putting down in paper, I won’t soon be able to forget about this trip and the entirety of my stay in India.

Alas (because you never get to say that enough unless you are Tolkien or Whitman, but the latter is a prick) we continued driving into the night and soon passed what was to be the sole McDonald’s (or any Western fast food joint for that matter) we would see on a 13 hour road trip.

I had my knees bracing against the backs of the driver and passenger seat, since there were no seatbelts in the back. Going 135 kmph, this little useless precaution made me feel safe. “Do you want the corner seat belt?” my friend asked when he noticed my peculiarity. “No its okay, my life isn’t any more valuable than yours” joking and we laughed.

I did my best to stay awake, but woke up to a roadside pit stop. It was just after sunrise and through the fog, a village was waking and a few in the distance were already walking through their mango groves and sugarcane fields. After an extended visit to Vellore and the Golden Temple, we picked the last brick buildings on the outskirts of town to eat, before the road again gave way tropical forests of green, only to break into the clearings of rice paddy fields and isolated inhabitants. At a three walled blue building we sat outside next to an open fire and metal slab that turned out hot dosas we dipped in even hotter sambar and chutney. As soon as we got inside the car and not a second later my friend reached under his seat and threw me a beer (because it’s legal-ish for passengers). Cold beer is not a necessity they told me. I had one and immediately passed out from exhaustion, waking up half an hour later to be instantly handed another.

The roads led through forests and farms, until villages turned into trading hubs were we would stop at crossroads. At each we pulled over and asked directions to Pondi, take an unmarked turn, and were back on green stretches, stopping only for fresh pressed lemonade or sugarcane juice.   

By the time we reached Pondicherry I was feeling excited, immediately though I sobered up when seeing a commotion on the side of the road. A crowd of people was attempting to lift a car off a calf that was trapped underneath. It came bolting out full of adrenaline and small streaks of blood on its white coat. I sunk back in my seat processing that image, just as we passed the sign welcoming us to the union territory of Pondicherry. The greeting humidity and lack of sleep set me into a gentle delirium, but that was soon calmed with a gentle stroll down French quarters and Goubert Avenue that ran alongside the Bay of Bengals. Over pineapples from the fruit carts, we spent the rest of the evening on the boulders overlooking the sea.

On the first full day and after a good night’s sleep, we headed out to an island of Puddacherry full of dragonflies. After volleyball and beers under a shack, we headed back to the mainland to sample some Indian seafood, a spread of masala crab, minced shark, and curry squid in a dimly lit restaurant. The usual food coma set in, mixed with that blissful post-beach exhaustion. After eating we drove outside the French quarter to an open beach head to swim. I had apparently lost some weight since summer and had to use one hand to hold up my trunks. I can only guess it lends itself to being cut-off cold turkey from craft beer and tortillas. However my exploratory addiction to sweets here and the revelation of an expansive world of Indian breads beyond the naan will likely counter the issue. Think roti, chapatti, parathas, poori, all in different types of finishing adornments, cooking methods and regional flare.

                I asked my friends to come out deeper and join me bobbing out in the murky water, but they all confessed to not being able to swim, a reality I often forget growing up by the sea. I never understood how American inlanders could travel miles to a beach vacation to just sit on the shore and read, to deny the euphoria of the waves and summers past, forgetting not knowing how to swim is a damn good reason. I stayed out there till I spotted a red jelly and came back to shore. We left shortly after, not before eating fried fish from the seafront stalls and drinking them down with coconuts, sitting amongst the painted fishing row boats beached on shore.

                That evening again we spent like I imagine brisk weekend nights of French Rivera would be spent. French heard drifting through the air from vacationers and residents helped. The pastel yellows, blues of whites of the colonial buildings all stood silently facing the sea, with families and lovers walking down the yellow lit boardwalk. The slight humidity and faces under swaying coconut trees reminded you weren’t in Europe, but somewhere far far away. We went for drive later, past the old French administrator buildings, churches and residences, across the canal and into the Tamil Nadu quarter with narrow streets of concrete and steel, painted signs and billboards, and metal storefront doors and roofs. The streets were abandoned except for the laying oxen near empty carts and occasional orbs of red light that would appear down a narrow alley as someone struck a match to smoke.

                We had plans to sleep on the beach under an awning but with the cyclone advisory for the neighboring northern state, we were content with the room. One by one we feel asleep until it only a friend and I were awake, with another snoring in the middle of us. We got to talking over beers about our perceptions of each others’ countries but also of a shared and I presume somewhat universal goings of 20 somethings. How when answering what were some things that intrigued me of Indian culture, I answered a reverence for the family and the measure of restraint and duty people seem to govern their lives by. This was something missing in the cities he said, the fluid definition of family, how when he would go home everyone comes by your parents house to see you through open doors, to hear your stories and share in your victories. Things were shifting, demands that had driven people from the villages to the concrete cities of Bangalore, amidst a great backdrop of changing norms of the individual, love, faith, and obligation, playing out in the lives of millions. He got to telling me a religious story from childhood, how the humble Chipmunks got its stripes, adding he did not know if people really believed it. I nodded saying I was not sure not if believing that story or maybe even others was the point, but rather what the story represents. A connection to our roots, the families we left back home, our communities that sustain us and a framework instilled since childhood that determines how we see, interact and make sense of this world. It’s written on our foreheads, he added at the end of one the stories shared where it can be hard to make sense of it all. A reference to How Brahma the Creator, Vishnu the Preserver and Shiva the Destroyer have marked you with an ineligible destiny.

                On our last morning we took our time. We stopped at a roadside stall for vada, idli, sambar and coconut chutney, down a cobblestone corridor that fed into the sea. The ocean breeze channeling down the walls kept the rising temperature at bay. After we strolled alongside the sea one last time, passing the weekend carts selling trinkets on the sand. We found the old man who was shouldering a hundred pounds of necklaces over his neck, shoulders, elbows and wrists that we had spoken with last night, with his wife carrying their baby. She talked me into a red coral necklace for my sister. Our last stop was to the liquor store to stock up on alcohol in the union territory where taxes were suspended, but limits strictly enforced at border checkpoints. We held our breathes as we crossed the border from Pondicherry back into neighboring Tamil Nadu and when passed, laughed and drove off fast.

                We took a different route home and found the national highway, stopping in a town known for leather. We quietly ate biryani and deep fried quail on palm leaves, to the sound of clanking metal bowls in the open kitchen and the call to prayer from the adjoining white mosque. It had been sometime since I have heard the call to prayer, but hearing it an enclave of town where India’s largest minority was the majority, added with the heat of food and atmosphere, and commotion of foot traffic and motorcycles that had become my white noise, seemed to heighten its impact. A feeling of serenity and affection for strangers around me, the normal act of a roadside lunch turned transcendental communion.

                And that all too common “I don’t know what I am eating exactly but damn this is good.”

                After lunch we stopped in leather shops (the byproduct of anything but the revered cow) and sampled shoes and belts in one basement level shop. The power cut, stopping the single fan that cooled the storage container-sized store, the fan that I had been standing under sipping my lemon soda. I returned to street level to walk around. Soon after we piled into the car and onto the highway, catching the sunset before it cast the valley into increasing darkness. 

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...

Mysore and a Month

Received an email from my grandma this past weekend, saying she was very happy to know one of six months done, that I would be home soon. A month already! Just last week I finally emptied one of the luggage bags.

In a month here, it took me only a week to find my corner bar, its like nothing I have ever seen back home. I can’t begin to describe it. But its just my kind of place. In a month I have managed to improve my negotiation skills with autorickshaw drivers, so as to avoid what happened in the first week when they promised to show me some sites, only to drive me around in circles to their friends’ shops where other Westerners happily opened their wallets for trinkets, while their drivers waited patiently outside over tea for you and his commission. And in a month I have gotten better at ordering food, detecting counterfeit rupees and crossing streets without jumping up in the air at every honk or running like a madman.

Before I came to India, my Indian friend warned me I would see stray dogs. He did so because I am a dog lover so as to prepare me. When I first heard this from him I shuddered, knowing this would be a constant source of pain. When I first saw these dogs, I averted my eyes and was heartbroken. Now, far from indifferent, I see it as part of the many layers of the daily life here I must navigate. To obsess over anything would lead to a point of immobilization, the antithesis of India. I offer snacks if I have anything on me, on a hot day tried to offer one water but he was too skittish, and whistle and talk to them in a loving voice when I pass by. When I do this some even wag their tails, and follow me for a block or two. When I lock eyes with some they will keep them locked until I break it. Some roam in packs, others tend to a litter off the main road, and I can only assume under their caked dirt, scars and scruff, all are tough.  And all are capable lovers. With a nice groom and overfed diet, some could even pass as suburban house pets back home. At night when I return from work, down a dark street lit only by a few street lamps you will see a pack circling about. Sometimes they are fighters. I can hear dog fights at night and one unlucky one yelping. Other times they are playmates, like once in the park when I saw a young puppy running up to other dogs jumping in the grass, leaping on them and disturbing the balance. When a monsoon rolls in, the streets will clear and the dogs, with their tails low and blinking from the rain drops hitting their eyes, disperse down alleys, under stalls and onto porches. This past weekend while at a bus stand, a woman offered a dog a crackle. The dog happily followed her at a distance of five feet, upright and wagging its tail. For the next half hour, as I saw the lady traverse the busy platform back and forth about her duties, the loyal dog was never far behind, never nudging the woman or barking. She acknowledged him at times and eventually when it came time for her to board her bus, amidst the dozen or so other buses zooming in and out of the stand and throngs of people, the dog followed her to the door and sat down loyally as she boarded. He stayed there for some time and I can only assume eventually went on his way.

I had my first getaway from the city this past weekend, to a town called Mysore, my visit coinciding with the Mysore Dasara, known as the festival of lights that started in this town and spread throughout the country. It honors the goddess Chamundeshwar or Chaimundi who killed the demon Mahishasura in battle. Dasara was first commemorated by the Wodeyar Kingdom of Mysore 404 years ago, a kingdom which reigned unbroken up till today, but for a brief military rule during in a power vacuum. The Wodeyar’s were later restored to the thrown by the British and Mysore remained the center of the namesake state until Independence, when Bangalore, a concentrated and developed British outpost, became the capital and the state was renamed Karnataka. This year’s Dasara will be unique given the passing of the king last year, who normally partakes of the annual precession on the final day. Traditionally the king would ride on the back of an elephant past the crowd and before his subjects, but this has long since been replaced with the golden sword of the warrior goddess Chaimundi, adorned in a gold chassis hauled by an elephant.

I caught a bus to Mysore with a coworker who was heading home for the weekend. We were the last ones on the 6 am bus and sat in the row of seats in the back, myself in the middle with a clear view down the length of the bus and driver window. I tried to get some sleep, only to awake midair as the backend hit a bump several times. Other times, the bus’s overtakes of rickshaws and motorcycles and its following yank of the wheel and acceleration to get me and the backend of the bus back into the correct lane before an oncoming semi, somehow didn’t induce the desired sleep I needed.

Managed to take a quick nap that morning in the room I rented, which came out to 8 dollars a night. Normally I assume it would go for less, but it was the first weekend of the 10 day festival. A 6 x 8 room with a bed, ceiling fan and adjoining squatting toilet. I toured most of the city on foot (it is a lot more manageable than Bangalore) and after a day of walking, laid down in the garden grass of the annual Dassara flower show. Later I met up with a coworker who took me through Devaraja Market, a centuries old bazaar selling vegetables, oils, colorful kumkum, the powder placed on the forehead marking the holiest of holy energy spots, or chakras, on the human body. The third eye, which humans see the divine.

That evening after pineapple dosas and tea, I walked along the Mysore palace walls trying to find my way back to my hotel down streets I think I had walked earlier in the day but didn’t recognize. I could see over the walls the palace’s decorative lights and entered through an unassuming entrance that was unlit, past armed guards and smoking men. Unsure what was off limits or not after previously believing it wasn’t open to the public, I followed a family 50 feet ahead, and just when my eyes were adjusting to the darkness, we turned a corner and were in the front of the palace grounds, lit up in celebration of the festival. Thousands lay in the grass watching a play staged at the base of the palace. My manager asked that I text him that evening, it was the Indian way he said, to make sure their guests are safe. As I was texting him about what I stumbled upon, I noticed a large object to my left loom up and obstruct the palace lights, and it was getting closer. I jumped up at the sight of an elephant being paraded down the lawn, right towards me. I reacted with a smile, stupefied shake of the head and a “shit!”

On my last night in Mysore, another coworker said he wanted to take me to the top of Chimandi hills to see the decorated lights of the old city below. We were met by my coworker’s hometown friends in their bikes. The hill is said to resemble the body of a beheaded man at rest, the body of Mahishasura, the evil demon that the warrior goddess Chimandi kills and from whom Mysore derives its name. We briefly stopped to see the palace below and continued up to the top of the mountain to Chimandi temple, were performers we gathered outside. Its pyramid tower jutting up into the sky was illuminated by lights cast on its face, allowing you to see the clouds splitting on either side and monkeys scaling up the temple. I had left my camera behind and was initially pissed as I tried to make do to encapsulate that image, complete with a serendipitous sacred cow that walked in front of my view, knowing I would not have language to write about it later as I am failing now. I resigned myself to the fact that this image would never fade in my memory and was the exact reason why I travel. Soon after 9 pm the lights on the celebratory lights on the city below were turned off and immediately a monsoon, that previously operated as nothing but silent lightening, unaccompanied by thunder, behind distant clouds that obscured any bolts but instead illuminated the clouds, moved in. Now it was heading for the hill. As people we vacating the hill, we stopped outside to enjoy the street stalls that catered to the temple pilgrims. Just as we were finishing our snacks, it began to pour and we made our way under the awnings of vendors. The lightening that was previously silent and hidden behind clouds, was coming down right above us and the empty lot we looked out on. Now not just the celebratory lights, but all the lights were out.  Over tea and cigarettes and bouts of laughs, the ten of the friends or so educated me on Bollywood actresses as I fielded their questions on Vegas.

On the way down the hill, the rain was bouncing off streets and the ones bouncing sideways were dozens and dozens of frogs. I got dropped off by the hotel but before entering, rounded the corner to the small bar I had visited last night. Without even a word the bartender gave me the beer I had liked the night before and I paid, turning to walk out the door down narrow alley road to my hotel. It was almost 11, the rain was still pouring down and the streets were empty. The police would be doing their rounds for the Dasara curfew and I had to get back before the hotel locked its door. As I lay in bed listening to the rain and thunder, I fell fast asleep.

My First 2 Weeks in Bangalore

For someone that can often times get lost swimming in his thoughts, India is a place that yanks you right out of them. There is a lot to think about in making this transition. But any stubborn attempt to overindulge this tendency would require denying the clamoring and competing sensory messages hitting your brain, alerting you to the risk of getting hit by a car, or at the very least of missing the beauty of daily life in India. As soon as you step outside and start navigating your way through the roadside stalls lining the street on one side and the rickshaws, motorcycles and trucks on the other (because sidewalks aren’t the norm), you are alert. Layer that with the commotion of the business of the streets: conversations of a circle of men, smells of frying fish at a corner stall, the blending colors of a spread of trinkets and silk scarves, and lots and lots of honking. Even when your mind starts to wander and take you miles away, getting clipped by a motorcycle brings you right back. It took me a few seconds to realize what had hit my arm and by the time I looked up, the guy was driving off without an acknowledgement. Yep, I thought with a genuine smile, I am most certainly living in India.

Though living here, I am keenly aware I am a foreign addition to this corner of the world and the daily business and rituals of life. I am a participant but also an observer. I get to see intimate glimpses of the extraordinary ordinary from my balcony of the families below, washing clothes, talking over a smoke, and children playing. But when I am out walking, there isn’t that barrier and I get to interact, many times reacting to what happens on each different twist and turn. Though most everyone is in their own world, I catch some stares and peculiar glances. Some immediately know I am a Westerner, where still others mistake me as a Northern Indian. “Some of us first thought you were from Kashmir or something” a coworker said, and so must in the streets when I look blankly back at their inquiries in Kannada, the local language, so instead they switch to Hindi and await a response. Still the same blank stare and me pointing and ad-libbing “I want to try some dosas.”

I stay just off of a dirt road that connects to a main road that circles the city. The neighborhood has a lot of older residential developments, some in pastel color brick buildings, others fastened from tarps and metal sheets, but also newer multilevel apartments that cater to the influx of younger workers and their families that move to the city for work. Up till recently this was considered the outskirts of town, and though the villages still maintain their relative calm compared to the bustle of the main roads, everything has been swept up into Big Bangalore. Still the neighborhood I stay remains absent of all obvious encroachments of globalization that breed convenience and consumerism nor the “serenity” lifestyle the modern apartments advertise; none of the new malls and fast food. Everything here is served from street stalls and local restaurants that blend regional cuisine with Southern Indian influences. With one exception, a Papa John’s with their signature Tandoori chicken.

One my first day here, jetlagged and wanting a quick fix, I went in and walked out with a pizza, before asking a worker to point me to a liquor store, which he said was across the main road. I had to cross an intersection where two side roads, the highways, on ramps, and underpasses all came to merge, where water tankers, auto rickshaws, motorcycles, bicycles and carts moved in organized chaos with no street lights or crosswalk. I waited till I saw two men crossing and ran with them like an idiot carrying my pizza. As I made my way there several men joined me speaking and motioning to my pizza, one or two even attempting an air of friendliness as they reached to open the pizza box. All the while I made my way through the gathering group to the liquor store owner, motioning towards whiskey, paying with one hand and guarding my dinner in the other. He jumped over the counter and with some exchanges and laughs, he shooed the pizza cravers away from me, slapping one in the face. He turned to me and told me to go, I was causing too much of a scene. As I made my way back home replaying the event, I settled to eat my pizza on the balcony. I slid the sliding door shut behind me to keep mosquitoes out of the apartment, immediately realizing there was no handle on the outside and I was locked out on the balcony, three stories up. I started yelling and waving to get the gardeners attention below, one just waved his hands and walked away from me because he did not understand what I wanted. Finally I managed to stop another staff that, though he didn’t speak English, was able to understand me through my hand motions and shouts that something was wrong. He motioned that he was going to get help. I waited and waited, decided against kicking in the glass, and just sat on the ground eating my pizza, and couldn’t help but laugh. This was the first moment it sunk in. I am far from home. Day 1.

This past Sunday I woke up in the early morning to meet my coworkers outside my apartment in a caravan of mopeds and motorcycles, on the way to watch their cricket game. I hopped on the back of one of the motorcycles and we weaved in and out of the Sunday morning traffic, until it opened up on the outskirts of town and the cars became cattle and children playing. I started drinking coffee for the first time last week since senior year finals, I am not sure what exactly brought about that, but I decided to pass on a cup this morning. I was still yawning when I got on the back of my friends bike. But I woke up from all the morning air hitting me in the face and with my head on a swivel and gripping the side bars in a death grip, I could do nothing but smile. When I want to have my thought I can go out on the balcony (careful to keep the door open) overlooking the cluster of homes below that circle a courtyard. But on rides like this, I will save the daydreaming, over-thinking and processing for later.

A man walks down the street

It's a street in a strange world 

...

He doesn't speak the language

He holds no currency

He is a foreign man

He is surrounded by the sound

The Sound

Cattle in the martketplace

Scatterlings and orphanages

He looks around, around

He sees angels in the architecture

Spinning in infinity

He Says Amen! and Hallelujah!

                - Paul Simon, Call Me Al

Week Leading Up

This is my first blog entry since a compulsory college assignment senior year. I make no promises about the makeup of the proceeding passages, especially any grammar flaws. I am in my mid twenties and the few promises I have made carry a lot of weight and will behind them. I cannot guarantee anything about the frequency, my transparency or any overarching structure in the following ramblings. Only that this the cliche thing to do when you move abroad. And I am at a point in life where I am reconnecting with my writing. Lastly, I have people in my life, self included, that are not entirely social media savvy or inclined and this seems the most effective way to communicate with them when I move to India. Besides its impossible to convey your experiences over weeks and months without a form of communication. When I came back from a year of volunteering in Denver, I got tired of "oh that's right, what were you doing again?" and me "I was a volunteer teacher," and the "oh wow that's cool." I'm writing for myself but to share my story with those I love...


Since I found out I would be moving to India for six months just a little over a month ago, there has been a range of emotions and unforeseen changes that I can only draw parallels to the knots I had leaving my home in Southern California to go to college outside Boston. That was six years ago to the week. I have been leaning on my friends and family as I navigate this transition. Of all the words that have poured in, some just right, some way off, some too soon, and silence from one who I needed support, one of the best came from a friend in Chicago: Just pack your bags. Focus on what you need to back in the next 8 days. Just get yourself there. That is all you need to do right now.

The 13 months of my life have been the most stationary since I was in high school. Just a few months back I moved into my old room that I had not lived alone in since I was 2. After several years of paring down my stuff, I decorated it with discarded posters and books. And on summer afternoons I would play the Beach Boy records and repeat the song "In My Room." Now the bags are coming out from under my bed and I am moving again.

As I pack I am replaying the words of one of my volunteer director's who I spoke with last week. I called him to tell him of the recent developments in my life, pausing to reflect how it has been two years now since moving to Denver and meeting him outside in the garden with a rake in hand  on move in day. You are not going there alone, he said. You are taking everyone that has played a part in your life with you. Even the people who you want to know so badly what their role will turn out to be. I am carrying those stories, and I thought immediately of the kindergartners now second graders I taught and that I miss in Denver.

In the little over two years since college, the anxiety I had entering the final semester about my future seems like a distant inner struggle. I could not have imagined my life in Denver, falling in love, meeting my goddaughter, and even moving home and feeling like my life was on pause at times.

I'm ready for a shakeup, and though the plans I have made around people, a place and a passion have not changed, I know from the risks I have taken in my life that this is exactly what I am suppose to be doing. As much I am trying to get my life in order, if there were such a thing, before leaving, student loans, banking, the cell phone situation, RELATIONSHIPS etc. as I look at my backpack in the corner of the room, I am letting go a little of my desire to control and know. Instead choosing to lean forward and hope.

This past weekend I spent the entire time with my family and a few friends at Carlsbad beach camping, with a vantage point from the coastal bluffs dotted in sage brush and of the sunsets each night after spending the entire day on the beach below. My dad and I discovered each day a handful of Velella velella's or "by-the wind sailors." These jellyfish like creatures that fit in the palm of your hand, that look like a translucent cobalt-blue Lay's chip, with a sail on top. They have been washing up in the thousands on So. Cal beaches all summer. They have no propulsion system, and I say they because each one is a colony of microorganisms that band to form this alien vessel. They rely solely on the sail they form to go with the current and wind. As these shift they can end up washed up on shore, or across the world. Submission to fate. Just passing through. "Imagine?" My dad said as we held one and if wasn't for the NPR story I heard about them, would have thought it was a plastic wrapper of some sort. "What a hell of a way to live."

So this little velella velella is off for now. But not without taking me the image of sitting by the campfire Saturday night with my niece in my arms, slouched over and mesmerized by the fire, exhausted by a day of laughs running along the tide. She was running her little fingers over the watch on my arm and all I could hear was the crackling of the wood and roar of the waves below. Time is a most peculiar thing.