So there was a great deal of debate with my family over whether or not I’d return home right away; although I was scheduled to come back on December 16th, many wanted me back earlier in light of the recent terrorist attacks. The perspective of safety here again is different; during my time here there has been some sort of attack every month…although this one was one of the largest (if not the largest) in the country’s history, it was an attack that all the same you learn to cope with, living in a country where the risk of such an occurrence lingers much of the time, especially in urban areas. The problem also was that I had specifically planned to travel for much of my remaining time with Melissa, who was presently in Nepal and unreachable for communication. The plans were a few days in Calcutta, a day at Ankush’s house, 5 days in Sikkim where Bikram lives, Gaya (the tree where Siddartha meditated and became the Buddha), Varanase (great views of the Ganges etc.), and Delhi where I’d meet up with Sumedha for a day. After some struggle, I decided at least to go to Calcutta and then decide there what I would be doing after. That way I could meet up with Melissa and help her find alternatives for travel and also spend at least some time with everyone before heading home.
Our group consisted of Anu, Jonas (from Sweden), Bikram, Melissa, Ankush, and me. For some reason I was abnormally tired on the train and slept for about 14 hours that night. I certainly welcomed that situation, as the train ride in total to Calcutta was about 26 hours. I spent most of my waking hours standing or sitting by the open door, watching the fields of Orissa go by. We also all played a game where we each had a name on a piece of paper stuck to our forehead and each person had to ask “yes” or “no” questions to see if they can guess the person. Last time Bikram had written “Watson” on my piece, like from Sherlock Holms; it had taken a while for me to figure out and he thought that this time around I’d have an easier time with “Satan.” Not really. Simple questions like “Does he exist?” or “Does he live on Earth?” “In space?” or “Is he alive?” “Dead?” all yielded hesitant answers like “…Maybe” or “For some people, yes, others, no.” Not really getting anywhere and growing hungry, I said I was stepping out of the train at a stop to get something to eat. Everyone immediately implored me to keep guessing or at least take the paper off my forehead…they knew it wouldn’t be the best label to have stuck on you while walking around in public.
We arrived in Calcutta after dark. Heightened security at the Howrah station was evident; in addition to armed camouflaged guards everywhere, there were sandbag-stacked circular walls equipped with machine guns at the front of the station. It was there where we met Melissa, who had been traveling through Nepal for a week beforehand. She looked pretty beat up, yet satisfied, with her mammoth backpack, clothes that hadn’t been washed in many days, and bandaged twisted ankle. We were really excited to have been able to find her, but decided to wait to catch up and all after we had reached our hotel. It was there that I also called my mother to let her know I had arrived; she told me that the high school cross country team that my brother runs on just qualified for the national competition. I knew how much of an honor that was and told all of my friends, some twice, about it.
I was glad to have Ankush with us, he knew exactly where to go in the city to find our hotel rooms and knew the appropriate cab prices etc. Calcutta is unlike other Indian cities I’ve been in and immediately struck me as the first city I’ve seen in India that reminded me of cities in the US. First of all, there are few rickshaws and transportation mostly consists of boaty yellow cabs and cars. There’s also a big lit up suspension bridge over a river by the station and visible tall buildings packed closely that I saw when I glanced over the river. There are also wide sidewalks on either side of the road, great spaces for walking or stands that would sell anything from a haircut to fruit to sweets to fabrics to chai. The chai there is served in these clay cups; it was a big deal for Anu, who had seen them on television but never been able to actually drink out of one. It was also fun to smash them on the ground after finishing; I stowed mine away though to take back to the States.
That evening I found an internet café where I tried to cancel my flights to and from Delhi that I had scheduled for about a week and a half later. I was also hoping to find out if the funds could be transferred to a different flight like Indigo Airlines will allow. I called Air India and was given a different number to try. After calling it I was directed somewhere else. Then somewhere else. Sometimes the line would disconnect (hung up upon maybe?), sometimes the new numbers wouldn’t work on my cell phone. Sometimes I couldn’t be understood…there are few things more difficult than giving my last name over the phone to an Indian. I had to restart at least a dozen times and no matter how slowly I went, all of the ‘a’s were very confusing. It was comically difficult. It got to the point where IF someone would answer the number I was dialing and IF he or she could understand me, I’d immediately start begging whoever was on the line NOT to give me a transfer number (which never worked) and answer my simple cancellation inquiries. That kindof didn’t work either and so we all decided to go have Chinese food.
Our hotel room was wide and spacious, but not very tall; I couldn’t stand up without having to tilt my head to the side. Ankush and Bikram stayed at a relative’s house; Jonas and I were in one room, and Melissa and Anu were in the other. The next day after my cold bucket shower we met up with Ankush and Bikram who greeted us with a box full of sweets, for which Calcutta is well known. My favorite was oval in shape and dark gold in color; it had a uniform dense and crumbly consistency except with a small gooey center. The texture of it in my mouth was one of my favorite parts; it was so dense that it felt almost like having peanut butter in your mouth, but slightly grainier. The taste was hard to describe, something like a thick cake maybe.
That morning we walked around the main part of the city and found Ankush’s favorite restaurant/bar (called Oli’s) that was well-known for its non-veg foods. The multi-story, packed together buildings we saw had lots of character and age, but at their bases were modern businesses, such as brand-name clothing or stores, Hallmark, and a Jet Airways office. I decided to investigate my options there for rescheduling my flight while the others went to a palace that was built for Queen Victoria. I was able to change around my international flight, but my domestic flight to Mumbai still had to be rearranged. I attempted to consult Air India again on a pay phone; although I had even more difficulty than the previous day, I was finally able to get an answer! My flight couldn’t be refunded in any way. At least I knew now.
Over the past few days I had been considering exactly when I was going to opt to head home. Although I was excited to see Ankush’s home with delicious foods and the beautiful Sikkim where Bikram lives, I also knew how badly my parents wanted me home. They were adamant about my return; although I was across the world, it seemed like a battle that I simply couldn’t win. I decided ultimately on scheduling my flights for the next day while we were all still in Calcutta; after we left the city for Ankush’s home it would have been much more difficult to get to an airport. Walking into an internet café, I transferred the funds from my Delhi Indigo flight to a new one back to Hyderabad within ten minutes and printed out the itinerary. Then I changed the international Jet Airways flight for a fee of $100 and called my Dad to reschedule the flight from Newark home since it was under his credit card. We decided to keep my Mom out of the loop and surprise her with my arrival. I got a strange feeling knowing that I’d be leaving India within such a short while. It was like I was distant from what was around me, as if it were more evident than ever that this was not home and I didn’t quite belong there.
Walking back to meet everyone, these two people approached me and started talking at me extensively. Embedded within their friendly engagement were tales of their misfortune, how someone had stolen their things etc. The conversation on my end didn’t go much past one or two word answers, and I kept walking. Following, they started asking for money. I promptly refused politely. Over and over. That’s just how I approach it. I hate it when I see people that don’t acknowledge beggars. I guess if you can’t handle it, it’s easier to just ignore them. That definitely doesn’t necessarily prevent them from begging at you though! At least if you let them know you’re not giving anything, you acknowledge that someone is trying to communicate with you. If I were begging and someone blatantly refused to acknowledge me, I’d be pissed. Although I can’t control the emotions of people, and refusing to give to a beggar’s face may or may not make him or her more or less angry/upset, refusing to communicate in the first place sure doesn’t help anything.
I continued to search for the Victoria Memorial. Looking like I was searching, a man walking next to me asked if I needed help. I told him where I was going; he said he was a janitor there and would show me the way. Really funny and helpful man. A few minutes later Ankush called and said they were at the Sikkim Office getting entry permits. The man knew where that was too and redirected me. We talked the whole time about Calcutta and these elementary school kids he was teaching and my travels etc. He took me right up to the Sikkim office entryway and politely asked for a donation for his students, if I saw it was fitting. No one knows whether or not he actually had these students; there is no way to know and that’s not the point. I gave him rs.50 because he was a friendly, unobtrusive, and humble man; who knows, maybe he’d even get his students something. Whether or not that ultimately was the case, he deserved it and guided me right to where I needed to go. That was reason enough. Although he asked for rs.100, he was grateful for what I gave.
My friends were distraught to hear of my decision. It wasn’t completely out of the blue; Melissa had been trying to figure out what she was going to do with herself during the days that we had scheduled to travel together after I had told her that I was probably leaving. It’s just that leaving as soon as the next day was like a smack in the face. The worried, abject looks on their faces at the thought of not seeing me again for quite some time, if not at all, and hugs they all started giving sure didn’t make things any easier.
That evening we met up with Ankush’s brother and all went to a delicious Bengali restaurant. The food was delicious, included in the dishes we ordered was fish and all sorts of things cooked with mustard oil, characteristic of Bengali cuisine.
The next day we ventured around some of the less-upscale parts of the city. This was more what I had imagined Calcutta would look like, with grimy walls, many people, and tiny shops, sometimes covering an area less than maybe 3 square feet. We went to a museum and then a café where the college students in the area frequented. There Anu got a phone call from her older sister, calling to let her know that she was going to be married. Anu was shocked and very excited, then jokingly she became upset at her sister for not telling her about the engagement sooner. Melissa was feeling ill, so she stayed at the café where everyone would meet back up after I had left. The rest of us, stepping onto the street, got some sugarcane juice before heading back to the hotel so I could gather my things. It was time to go.
Ankush, Anu, Bikram, and Jonas accompanied me to the airport. On the taxi ride there I took a video with my camera of the streets, trying to take in every part of the environment. At the entrance to the airport I said goodbye to everyone; although everyone was joking like normal, there was a definite sense of heaviness in the air and I could tell how upset everyone was to see me go. Although I had intentions of coming back at some point to visit, no one ever knows what is going to happen in the future. As I stepped into the airport to check in, tears leaked out of my eyes.
After many security checks, I boarded the plane, less excited than on my first Indigo Airline trip to Jaipur several weeks ago. I felt very heavy, like the enthusiasm had been drained from me, and slept the whole way back to Hyderabad.
I got a bus back to Medhiputnam. It was exciting for me to be back in Hyderabad; it felt like home. I knew it, its quarks and idiosyncrasies; I was familiar with its people and how they acted when I walked down the street; I was acquainted with my favorite parts of the city, like Medhiputnam, where my friends and I had been so many times. I stopped at a sweet shop on the side of the road and purchased something that looked like my favorite sweet from Calcutta. It didn’t taste the same. I guess Calcutta is known for its sweets for a reason.
I was able to locate a shared-auto back to Gachibowli; a shared-auto (basically a larger auto rickshaw fitting roughly 7) is a great option of transport because you are able to sit down (unlike often on the bus), it’s cheap, and you can see the city out the window very clearly. The auto looked practically new, with cushiony seats and a solid metal frame that looked freshly painted. Inside on the way back I struck up a conversation with some folks from Yemen, they were excited to speak with me and were very curious about what my thoughts of the city were. We had a friendly conversation for 15 minutes or so before they disembarked. Back at Gachibowli I stepped out of the auto and started to walk away. After 20 seconds or so I realized that I had neglected to pay for the ride; I ran back to the driver and offered him money, but he waved his hand at me and said the fee was already paid. As he drove away I was confused until I put the pieces together. My new friends from Yemen had asked where I was going specifically when they got off, and talked to the driver for a few seconds; although I didn’t realize it at the time, they had paid my fare.
Back at school Mr. Das was more than willing to let me sleep in an empty room at the guest house overnight; there was only one other student there, Tess, and it was eerie to see the usually chatty house so quiet and empty.
Before retiring that night I visited Gops one last time and ordered my favorite usual, paneer masala and veg noodles. I ate alone, as none of my other friends were there, but the food was just as good as it always had been, since Ankush first introduced it to me many months ago. As I left, I tossed the remainder of my roti on the ground for the dog eyeing me nearby hungrily.
The next day I was slightly alarmed to hear that a police officer had been shot while in pursuit of a suspected terrorist in Hyderabad the day before. I needed to go into the city that day before I left, but wasn’t sure if that would be entirely safe. It seemed that renting a personal taxi for the day would be the best bet, as it would be the fastest mode of transportation and also would be able to escape quickly if something unexpected were to occur.
My driver, Chandrah, was very nice and willing to take me anywhere I needed to go in the city. First we went to a bank where I cashed my traveler’s checks into rupees. Then we went to Abids where the main post office was. There I had my tabla set prepared to be shipped. It was tied and wrapped several times in this burlap covering, the edges of which were held together with melted wax. It was going to cost only about $40 to have it shipped to the US, taking about 40-50 days. I could have had it flown over in like 15 days, but that would have required twice as much cost. We then stopped at a bookstore so I could find “fragile” stickers for the sitar I was bringing home. After, we stopped at a suitcase store so I could get another one for all the extra luggage I needed to haul home. Lastly, we stopped at a tailor’s shop in Lingampally where I was having kurtas tailored. The last time I was there they didn’t have everything finished; this time again, one was not finished. Although I vocalized how upset I was not to have all the articles finished now after two deadlines, I agreed to come back to pick up the last one in a few hours, hopefully by then it would be done.
Chandrah dropped me off at school and would be back in a few hours to take me to the airport. I spent my last few hours in Hyderabad organizing my things and eating at a tasty Punjabi restaurant in Gachibowli. Eggplant masala and malai kofta, my favorites. The waiters were so incredibly kind and full of hospitality, qualities that I feared I would miss back in the States. I knew what I wanted, requested it to be spicy, it came promptly, I let them serve me just like they always do, I ate with the hands just like I had grown accustomed to, and I was excited to get the bowl of warm washing water after the meal was finished. I asked to have the leftovers in a take-away parcel so I could give it to Batia and Rachel who would be back at the guest house shortly after I had left. They share my affinities to eggplant and malai kofta.
Back at school, it was time to say goodbye to Mr. Das and Tess; at least I didn’t have to say goodbyes to every student like those who left early had to. I was grateful for all of Mr. Das’ guidance that he had delivered throughout the semester, and before I got into the car I gave a hug to Tess. She was the first student I had met when I first flew into Hyderabad in mid-July, now she was the last I was saying goodbye to.
I nodded one last time to the gatekeeper at the entrance of the university, and said my silent goodbyes to the city as Chandrah headed to the airport on the road that had been under construction the whole semester, but had just recently opened up.
At the airport I offered Chandrah a healthy tip for all of his help that day; I insisted that he take more than his fee, but he politefully yet solidly refused. Jet Airways personnel handled my two huge suitcases and sitar. At the check-in counter I asked to have 3 bags checked; the website claimed that students traveling back to the US before the end of the year had the option to check another bag. Fortunately she agreed and assured me that the sitar would reach its destination unscathed, as I begged for its safety. It was as easy as that, no extra fees or anything. I tipped my luggage handler some extra money, and his partner asked for a tip as well (he had done nothing to assist me with my bags though). Such an occurrence has happened before, and I did just what I had previously decided to do: Smile and say that the tip can be shared if the man who was actually working was willing. The man accompanied me to the counter where I changed all of my rupees into American dollars. I wish he hadn’t, he was in awe (practically laughing) at how much money I possessed and requested that I give him some. I continued to smile at him and simply denied every time he asked.
After security, I stopped at the chaat vender and got kachori one last time. I would surely heavily miss its spicy, tangy, buttery, and salty taste. After talking with a food vender for some time who was excited to become fast friends, I boarded the plane and was off to Mumbai.
The airport there was as crazy as I remember after when I first arrived in the country: planes everywhere, areas being renovated with dry wall corridors, and beautiful blue granite bathrooms. On the bus ride to the international section of the airport, I became friends with the guy sitting next to me who was on his way to vacation on an island. He had been many places, including Dubai, where he explained that a private helicopter had been waiting for him at the airport to take him to the hotel. He seemed full of passion and was really excited for his trip. We continued to talk for probably over an hour in the airport and exchanged addresses as we parted ways.
While waiting for the plane, I explored around, called my mom to let her know that I was hiking in the mountains of Sikkim (she thinks I’m staying in India for about 11 more days, I couldn’t wait to surprise her), and flipped through some books at a stand.
The plane was just as I remembered it, stunning service, comfortable seating, great food, blankets, drinks, space. I felt jaded though. I had expected all of those things to be there. I had wondered throughout the entirety of my stay in India what it would be like to be on this plane back home; what would I be thinking? Who would I be missing? How would I have changed? Now here I was. It didn’t feel as glorious as I had imagined it to be, maybe partly because I was still thinking about India, not where I was going. Maybe I hadn’t expected it so soon. I had changed things around two days ago, and now suddenly the time to close my unforgettable experience had arrived.
I played the language game that I had tried on the way over in July. I recalled how I remembered the voice on the game sounding, I recalled how excited I was to actually learn Hindi at the same time. Now I had been through Bhavani’s class, the numbers were easy. I knew all the answers. I missed the freshness, the novelty…the anticipation of what would be coming. Now, I knew, I had been, I had seen, I had done…and the anticipation transformed into nostalgia.
I made it through the Hindi game easily. None of the other languages felt interesting. Neither did any of the other games.
I spent a lot of time sitting and thinking.
In Brussels I considered buying chocolates for my friends and family, but didn’t care for the prices. I was converting prices into rupee values, and was significantly dissatisfied with every one.
I walked around a lot, looking at things, watching people. No one was watching me though. Things were different here. Sitting and waiting for the plane, I tried to make a conversation with the guy sitting next to me. He was Indian, I guess I felt most comfortable talking to him. He lived in New Jersey. An excitedness and engagement was missing from the conversation.
Seven hours later we landed in Newark. I thanked every steward and stewardess that had served me and admired with a smile the spaciousness and fanciness of the premiere class before stepping off the plane. The corridor was cold. I stepped onto the terminal and followed the stream of people heading to customs around a walkway that was shielded from the rest of the airport waiting area with glass. I had seen this before, while I was waiting in those very seats I could see, eating my final meal in the US (a salad) before heading off to a very different world for half a year. It all hit me in a flash, all the anticipation I harbored while waiting anxiously before I had boarded my large plane. I had watched this stream of people disembark, behind the glass; they had just arrived from India, many had saris on, less than a day ago they were in the far-away strange land I was heading to. I wondered when I would be disembarking just like they were, when I would be part of that crowd, how I would be different, what things I would have experienced, how it would feel to be back in the US after so long. It all had seemed so far away. I wondered, and now I was one of those people behind the glass. Here I was, just like I had imagined. All that excited anticipation, and now here I was.
I started to cry.
Tears silently rolled down my cheeks even as I waited in the customs line for the man to check my passport. I felt empty. I didn’t want to have the recent experiences I had lived fade away into the past. What a unique opportunity, an opportunity of independence, of friendship, of exploration, of curiosity, of unexpectedness, of living the distant corners of unimaginable places and all manner of conversations with friends and even quick remote acquaintances, all of whom I cherished, yet all of whom I felt slipping away. The page had turned, and indeed unique chapter had been closed.
The journey here had been just over 24 hours. It didn’t make up for the difference between the two destinations. That flight should have been days and days.
It was difficult getting up and down escalators with two fully sized rolling suitcases, a backpack, and a sitar. Also getting into crowded trams.
The woman at the registration counter was loud but helpful, she told me where to go to see if my sitar could be gate checked back to Pittsburgh, and she said she’d let me balance the contents my suitcases so only one was overweight. She was also very frank about the luggage and overweight charges, which cost more than changing around all of my Jet Airways domestic and international flights, and certainly more than the free-of-charge checking that Jet Airways offered.
The sitar was just barely the maximum size for gate-checking. It was an interesting sight, the sitar going through the x-ray machine. The security guard was curious about it. It was a very different sight to him. The sitar made it back ok in the end, in tact and in one piece. The cold and lack of humidity though have caused two of the 17 strings to snap thus far.
The men sitting behind me on the plane were large, and they were loud. They loved to laugh. The magazine in my seat had so many things available for purchase in it.
The Pittsburgh airport was so familiar it seemed dull. A neighbor picked me up. It was very, very cold outside, my sandaled feet weren’t used to it.
My parents were watching Eric’s competition in Oregon. The house was empty. It was just as I remembered it though, and as soon as I had entered it felt like I had never been gone. My bed felt like a cloud. I wasn’t used to such a soft mattress though; it made my back curve uncomfortably while I was resting.
I woke up very early, it was still dark outside but I felt like I needed lunch; it felt like I needed lunchtime at Gops.
I headed out to Muhlenberg to visit friends. They were surprised speechless to see me. They didn’t really know what to say, and neither did I. There was an end-of-the-semester party that evening. I was so incredibly disoriented and would end up speaking in a lost, monotonous voice anyway, so I opted not to be a part of the crowd of loud people in the apartment. I fell fast asleep on the floor in my friend’s room.
I attended Muhlenberg’s Candlelight Carols service. The Christmas music was familiar although confusing, maybe because I hadn’t had Advent to feel “in the spirit.” Muhlenberg’s chapel and organ console had seemed so incredibly distant not so long ago. I was tired. It was hard to follow my friends who ran up to me afterwards, excited to see me for the first time in many months.
They ask me how India was, I smile and say that it was amazing, and then we move on with our lives.
Back at home my parents were coming in a few hours. I lit the fire and the Christmas tree, and waited by the kitchen counter. My dad knew I was there, my mom didn’t. She saw me as she came into the living room; she froze and an astonished, slightly concerned look came about her face. I could tell she was very confused, muttering questions like “…how?” Smiling, I gave her a hug, and could tell that she was very glad to have me back.
It was a nice winter break, visiting with friends, many of whom wanted to hear all about India. One conversation with a friend and his family about India lasted almost 6 hours. Christmas was hard, I became sick for many days. I saw Slumdog Millionaire, elements in it made me long for where I used to be. The movie was nice but its representation of the country alarmed me and was not entirely congruent with my experience there. Media like that likely contributes to conceptualizations of the country that prompt a question like “why would you want to go there?” in a conversation about my abroad experience.
I got used to being at home, playing the piano, keeping up with friends from India periodically through Facebook, visiting with close friends and brother just like always. It was nice to see all of them again.
Now I’m back at school, it’s been about two weeks. I’ve found it incredibly difficult to readjust, and a large part of me is refusing to readjust, probably out of fear that if I fall into what I’m used to here, what happened in India will be forgotten, will move into the more distant past. The ways people interact annoy me. What they wear annoys me. I don’t feel motivated to do academic things yet. I feel confused, and my academic direction feels lost, as I ask myself questions like “can I stay here for another year and a half?” “is this what I really want to be doing?” Things like choir continue on just like always, I realize that it did just the same even while I was away last semester. Teachers engage me just like I remember from last spring, it seems so familiar now, but it had seemed so distant in India.
I like to exercise when I can. I like to do yoga. Things like that calm my mind and allow me to focus because I feel ok with where I am and what I’m doing. It’s very distracting when you question where you are and what you are doing so much. It is also quite a fruitful learning experience.
My assignments, papers, and duties remain uncharacteristically disorganized in my mind and in my room.
I knew it wasn’t going to be easy; it shouldn’t be. If it were, what would that say about how deeply an experience like that affected me? Such a readjustment is a process, and the most difficult part of traveling it seems. Although being in India for the first time was disorienting and confusing much of the time, feelings like that are not as difficult to deal with as these.
I don’t feel like I’m a different person. I’m still Matt. But the study abroad experience has added and transformed dimensions of who I am. I feel like the country is part of me; if I were there again I imagine I could navigate and adjust to the mode of life there as if I had never left, although the country continues to change rapidly. I think more about what I actually value, not just what I should be doing. “Shoulds” can cause so much pain. I think more about the present, trying to do things I feel I need to then and there rather than put them off for later; no one knows what the future brings. I’m still working on lifting myself from the past, being the emotional and nostalgic person that I am. I feel in tune with a sense of what “different” means. The condition of so many things in India contradicted how I would try to make sense of them, so many things were inexplicable and incomparable to my frame of mind. Sometimes you can try to explain something or figure it out for ages, but nothing fully grasps the idea until you conclude with “it’s just different,” as unhelpful of a description that may seem. I remember trying to figure out the role of caste in Indian society; as I continued to investigate while I was there, I realized everyone’s own opinion, perspective, and setting within and about the caste system was different. Not only is India different from the US, but it is different within itself. So many multiplicities are there, so many unique influences that cause me to answer most any question asked to me about India with an “it depends” response. You question what you know, you question your conceptualizations of others, because you know more than ever how different people can be from one another, how people are influenced by so many things that contribute to their own unique perspective, yet also how we are all the same, sharing feelings and endeavors. I had to learn to set judgment aside in India, I knew nothing, and could judge nothing, interpret nothing. In a situation like that, you question yourself. You question the validity of your values; you question the way you see the world, your own perspective. There is no Right way, just a path that fits you; maybe this is why a solution sometimes isn’t as helpful as the right question, which prompts a potential world of knowledge and growth. People act the way they do because of reasons that influence specifically them, that’s what individuality means, and that individuality is only lived by one.
“Variety is the spice of life,” that’s one of the things that India had to say to me.
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