continuous present

Tuesday night we made it to the college after a long ride down dirt roads, passing bikes, cows, goat herders, trucks and cars while laying on the horn, which is customary here. Everyone uses their horn. Its as if the moment you get into the car, the horn is upset and continues screaming at everything in front of the car until you are parked at your destination.

Upon arriving at the college, we were welcomed with flowers and a home cooked meal at Dr. Rowt’s house. Flowers for the gods, flowers for guests. Food for the gods, food for guests. Worship in the Hindu faith is based upon hospitality to the gods, and being good hosts to guests is just an extension of worship. The food here is amazing. A new part of the meal for me was curd, a yogurt like substance that every family makes from their own unique culture. Every family’s curd is different and distinct.

The guest house at the college is huge and comfortable. We are well taken care of here, there seems to be an attendant here any moment we are here, waiting to serve us. Chai? Breakfast? Chai? Chai?? The tea is better than anything I’ve had in the states, and has become such a daily ritual here, I think I will miss it when I am back, but the servitude will not be missed. It is difficult for me to become accustomed to being waited on. We are not gods. We are recently graduated (poor) college students. We are not ambassadors, diplomats, powerful business owners. It is odd to be treated with such respect, such high regard.

The first day of our time in Umarkhed happened to fall on India’s Independence day, and the college held a flag raising ceremony that we attended as honored guests. The women on one side, men on the other. After they were done singing the national anthem, I was instantly surrounded by students holding pens and address books. “Mum, can I have your autograph? Your address? Your email? Thank you mum!” I felt like a celebrity. Hands and notebooks, so many hands and notebooks and shining faces, wanting to be seen. Who am I? I am nobody, all I’ve done so far is finish college… but here, I am a bit of a novelty here. We are the first foreigners many people have seen in town. A whistle was blown, the principal rescued me, and whisked me away to his office with Loren and Denny for tea.

I make the men nervous. Here, the women and the men live separate lives, the girls do not play or socialize with the boys. The men are curious and outgoing, the women are shy. As a result, I have mainly only interacted with men at the college, and it is obvious that they don’t know how to classify me in their minds. They don’t know how it is proper to act. I don’t quite fit their definition of woman, because I am not from here, do not act as if I am… but I’m not sure how far the foreigner card will actually get me. Some don’t make eye contact, some won’t address me at all, while others will play Frisbee and tennis with me without seeming awkward.

The first day, I was walking from the college to the tennis courts across the streets, and 3 young girls, looking between the ages of 6 and 10, saw me. The youngest one dropped her jaw, stared, and ruptured with laughter. How out of the ordinary, a white woman! How hilariously out of place! Her honesty was so refreshing, I walked over to their group and said “Namaste!” They looked at each other, and replied with an unsure “Namaste!” I asked them in Hindi if they spoke English. No. I asked if they spoke Hindi. No they said, we speak Marati. We had no way to communicate, but managed to do so anyways. I taught them to play Frisbee. They taught me how women walk together. We pointed at each other’s jewelry, exchanging words in Marati and English. I took their photographs, they laughed, and then struck poses fitting for Bollywood actresses and told me to take more.

It is moments like these that make all of the difficult ones seem worth it. I have had what the doctor here calls “loose motions” for days. I’m beginning to believe that diahreah is part of India, part of its soul, part of the experience. Yesterday, all I wanted to do was to get my phone working, call home, or write some emails out to everyone who I am missing so dearly. I have been looking forward to this for one week. After searching the internet for answers, I find out that my phone cannot be “unlocked” without an expensive device. I also consistently get kicked off-line, so the idea of writing lengthy emails is gone. I just start crying. It will cost 2000rs (50 dollars) to purchase a phone here in Umarkhed.

People do not say please and thank you here. While hospitality is an Indian notion, manners belong to the English. Several times, I have said “thank you” out of habit for some service, and have received an “No need to thank me ma’am, it is my duty.” Duty. Everything here is done out of a sense of duty. It is their duty to be good hosts. Their duty to show me the goods they sell. Marriage is a duty.

Marriage feels much more institutionalized here. It is expected. It is arranged. It is not about what you want, it is about your place in the grand scheme of things, the big picture of society. Everyone knows their place here. Everyone knows their duty. Marriage is the building block of India.

Oxen pull carts through the street. People color the horns for decoration.

The weather is much more comfortable here than in Delhi. Very cool, relatively speaking. Now it feels like an Ohio August, not a Miami’s August. My arms and legs are stiff from tennis and Frisbee, my skin bronzed. Every evening, we play. We play on a dirt court with chalk lines. We draw a large crowd of passer-bys who stop to see the white people play tennis. I am getting used to this. When we play Frisbee, this happens as well. I’ve started coping with it by throwing the Frisbee (lightly) into the crowd of onlookers, forcing/inviting them to play. This results in a game of four becoming a game of thirty, but it is so much fun. I’ve been teaching people with hand gestures alone how to play.

Every morning, I wake up at 6am without an alarm. I read, I write, I drink chai. I indulge myself in this peaceful couple of hours, savoring each second of solitude. Privacy does not naturally exist here, and if one did not demand it, one would not find it. There is no time or space for oneself except for these few hours that seem to neither belong to yesterday or to today.

Privacy is an imported good, like toilet paper, which, thankfully, they provide me with at the college.

Maximum. Use any sentence in American English with the word “most”, and replace it with “maximum.” What do maximum people in the US study? What kind of pet do maximum people have? Where do maximum people live? Do the same for “least” and “minimum,” and you will be on your way to speaking Marati-English. Another favorite phrase of mine is “What is your program for today?” which means, when translated, “What are you doing today?”

This morning, I finished reading Don Delillo’s White Noise. It reminded me of Parma. It reminded me of home, of all of the opinions I hold regarding life in the suburbs, and a few more. After this, I ran across the street where I noticed a group of women playing cricket. They taught me to play, and were amazed at my immediate proficiency. Cricket is like baseball. Same skills, throwing, catching, batting. They showed me how to wear these clothes for sports. They invited me back tomorrow. They want to henna my hands.

I taught my first class today. We went over tenses.
Simple past.
Continuous present.
Perfect future.