Three, Two, One...Gone!

I am not given to cheesy endings. I do not like saying goodbye. Through trial and error, I've figured out that the best way for me to leave a situation is to quickly exit stage left showing the bare minimum emotion required. This has been a hard lesson for me to learn as I am a hugely emotional person at my core; if I allowed myself to display my full array of emotional yearnings, I would probably appear manic. Unfortunately, here in the country that has given the world Bollywood, in the city where the "masala" movies are made, overly emotional displays are like a disease, and after a month of living here, I am severely afflicted. I finally understand where I get my easily manipulated emotions because I'm surrounded by millions of people who are disturbingly like me: Indians are flagrantly emotional, loud and excited and angry and happy, with a collective sense of humor that makes me laugh daily.

And now that I am almost on the eve of leaving Mumbai for Delhi, I am having a hard time keeping my emotions in check. Yesterday was my last day of work at Kherwadi and while I still feel like I just arrived, I am surprised by how quickly I've grown attached to everyone. I finished the grant proposal that I was writing (such a great program Katie and I created!) and then had to say goodbye to the English class that I had picked up as a side project. The class is for girls who are high school dropouts and I was told by the new English teacher that I should say a few words to my students, and so I spoke in a voice that I've started to think of as my "English teacher" voice: a little bit FOB, a lot slower than my normal jabbering pace, and very, very clearly enunciated. They were looking at me expectantly and I told them that I would miss them, and that I had enjoyed teaching them, and then I started to tell them how very smart they were and how I was sure that their English would continue to improve with their new teacher, and my voice unexpectedly started to crack. I wish you all could see these girls. I can't accurately capture in pictures or words how very beautiful and funny and sweet and so eager to learn and so savvy and still fascinated by the world around them they are. We talk about families and lives and boys and politics and religion and school, and they unexpectedly brought presents on my last day that just made the lump in my throat bigger. I am not used to public voice cracking or lumps in my throat and both are slowly and disturbingly increasing in frequency, and I haven't seen my family in Delhi and U.P. yet.

I am so surprised by the panoply of my emotions here: I don't know if it's because I am seeing this all by myself for the first time, or if I just needed a break from my life to renew my natural optimism, but I can never predict what will make me laugh or cry or rage or delight. When I got to Bandra station today, a full squall was intensifying and all of us women in the "ladies only" car were laughing and squealing and crashing through the enormous "suspect lakes" that had formed on the tracks. The rain was blowing sideways and coming down in sheets and when I looked up at the sky in shock, I noticed the girl next to me doing the same. I smiled at her and we started to giggle and walked through the blinding torrent with umbrellas by our sides, chatting happily about the rain. Outside the station, the muezzin had sounded the call for adhan (Friday public prayer) and hundreds of Muslim men and boys with white crocheted caps were facing Mecca and the rain head on, standing so still in their perfect lines among the chaos that they looked painted into the scene, meticulously placed. The lump returned as the prayer continued and as one, they all fell to their knees onto wet prayer rugs and plastic tarps, and rose again and again. I couldn't look away even though the lump was getting worse; I got into a rickshaw and moved the tarp covering the side to peer at them, shocked by the tears in my eyes.

It is the unpreditibility of what will affect me that has shattered my carefully cultivated emotional checkpoints. The sight of two trains heading toward Borivali in the north, with thousands of people hanging out of the open doors still causes my head to spin in awe, still unable am I to comprehend the sheer number of people in this country. My new ability to deftly sidestep puddles, children, rickshaws, bikes, goats and street vendors without the benefit of sound (as my headphones are perpetually in my ears) will sometimes make me laugh aloud, a noise that doesn't go unnoticed by the person who is inevitably within hearing distance, who will always look and return my smile. Katie and Flora and I laughing through the bazaar road in Bandra East at the end of a day of work, talking loudly, hand gestures punctuating our stories while sharing "chocolate creme biscuits" will sometimes fuel and then quickly quell the little ache in my heart for home. The touch of the other teachers at work, their fingers knowingly and lovingly combing through my tangled curls, admonishing me in Hindi and Marathi for not using coconut oil regularly, while inspecting my ever-darkening face for messy eyebrows and unbleached facial hair makes me giggle for its very Indian-ness. A sweet email from my college friend, Jenni, unexpectedly causes me to burst into tears. My mom and I logging onto Skype at the same exact time unplanned on a random Sunday and having an hour-long spontaneous conversation makes me happy whenever I think about it. The sight of all of the fantastic driven people I've met here, roommates and new friends, American and Indian and Swiss and Dutch and Canadian and Jamaican and Scottish and everything in between, dancing to the beat of some Hindi filmi song convinces me that we have so much more in common than divides. The same thing happens in my English class, where I have six girls, two each of Hindu, Muslim, and Christian, where our conversation about how the world is changing and they know they may fall in love with someone unlike them and they're not really sure that is a bad thing is so like conversations that I have with my friends at home that I can't help but believe that our world is getting smaller everyday.

I am on emotional overload here and am oddly, relishing every minute of it. My brain feels like it never rests, and my fingers are always aching to capture every moment of my life into words or pictures, and my eyes are always open, trying to remember exactly what everything looks like. I know I will sleep for days and days when I come home.

But until then, I will remain here, overloaded and slightly sleep-deprived, so happy and so very alive.

P.S. IMPORTANT: If you want anything from here, let me know as I am going to Delhi to do some mad bargain-shopping with the fam and need your orders immediately. Much love...