Red for their uniforms
Bright orange saris
Green and yellow auto rickshaws zooming past me on the street
I remember the rainbow of fruit at the market, and my excitement for finally finding an avocado, even though I didn’t buy it, because I could hear the pit in it as I picked it up, and I was so close to America.
America.
I thought coming home would be harder than it was, maybe because in many ways I was ready to leave India. But there are things about America that are overwhelming.
Like walking into Target, with the overwhelming selection…
Or realizing that everything I need to do here (except get a job) can be done nearly effortlessly, and if I wish, in solitude…
Or the day I cut off so much of my hair in a spontaneous decision that I definitely do not regret.
But because I was ready to come home, I see beauty in America that I did not see when I came home from South Africa.
Like the overwhelming variety of shades of green as I walk the Lafayette reservoir or the clear blue of the San Francisco Bay as I sit with new and old friends at a table right next to the water. I notice the purple flowers in my driveway and the rainbows everywhere in the Haight…on the café’s wall menu, or the flags flying from old Victorian windows.
I guess when I look around here, I see color, too.
I notice the pink in my face returning as my friendly Indian parasite, Herman (Hermie), leaves my body and the pink spots on my legs that haven’t disappeared from the Indian bugs that nibbled at my legs as I slept. I notice the bright pink on my toes from my American pedicure, and the pink awning on Telegraph Avenue on the shop that sells everything I bought for you in India, but at a price even the gutsiest market vendor wouldn’t dream of asking me for.
That is irony.
I see family and old friends and, naturally, everyone asks me about India. Some people ask questions that are incredibly insightful and challenge me to be succinct and articulate, and others sadden me, because all they ask about is how dirty India is and how sick I got.
I’ve traveled enough to expect these questions, but I’m waiting for a question that I can’t answer. India isn’t as easy to talk about as other places I’ve been. I don’t have as many crowd-pleasing stories…no lion adventures. But I could tell you about inspiration. Like Jassi, the sewing teacher at my school, who always made me laugh when she told me my hair “is like noodles.” One day on her way to school she fell out of the bus and her entire left side of her body was swollen. I won’t write her age (she’d be so mad if she found out), but she was getting close to being too old to be married when an army man from Punjab briefly met her (through a family arrangement) and proposed. I can only imagine her happiness and her nerves. She inspires me because of the dedication she exhibited towards the women in her class, even when she would cry “You have no brain!” when they’d make a sewing mistake. She made me promise that I’d never forget her, and so I’m writing this to prove to the world that she is always in my memory, stored away in the compartment I reserve for people around the globe who remind me what it feels like to be human.
I could also tell you about the grand party my Afghani family and I had when they finished school. We popped balloons with confetti and fed each other cake. When the conversation came to the fact that in a matter of days I would be leaving India, the entire family, from the father to the youngest child, wept. I think about them every single day because they want to come to America so badly, and here I am, back in my old routine, in the land of their dreams.
I’m back to my old routine, albeit a few minor changes. My days at home have been consumed with apartment and job searches, and lots of sleep (although it’s late now) because Hermie make me tired. Not too interesting, so I won’t continue. But I’ve discovered some gems, like the New York Times columns by Maira Kalman, which keep me glued to my computer rather than a book as I dig further and further into her archives. Maybe I’m late in discovering her, but her columns are so beautiful, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t shamelessly modeling this blog after hers. Lately the question of my days is, what do I want to do when I grow up? And if I could do anything, I’d be a combination of her, and Nicholas Kristof. My favorite one of hers so far is here, if you’re interested: http://kalman.blogs.nytimes.com/2007/01/02/completely/
Maira (we’re on a first-name basis. If only she knew.) sums up part my new stress-free mentality from India that so far, I’ve had a 94% success rate at keeping up in America: “Everyone is going forward, and everyone is behind everyone, and everyone is looking ahead to the future.”
But I’d also like to look at where I am now, because right now, it’s all beginning. And it could be stressful, but mostly, it’s pretty exciting. Perhaps the biggest gift India’s given me that I’ve noticed so far is the gift of extraordinary peace. I’m not angry, but I’m not apathetic, but I recognize that life’s story is illustrated without much of my control, but I’ve been presented with a beautiful piece of art. So I’ll take the colo(u)rs and peace-within-the-chaos from India and the music and laughter from South Africa that I have shared with you here, and weave it into a new story…Curls in the Capitol.
I hope you’ll join me on my next crazy adventure.
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