Midway Thoughts: The Universe Sings

Yesterday marked the halfway point of my time in India. These are all-the-way thoughts about the midpoint of my stay. 

[Disclaimer: The following paragraphs contain feelings and reflections. If you want adventure stories, skip this post and read the other ones about Jaipur, Aurangabad, Abheypur, or Agra.]

Yesterday evening was the first time I felt positively in love with Delhi. Ravi Shankar performed a free concert in Nehru Park near Chanayakapuri at dusk, and nothing could taint it, not even the rude guy sitting next to me who kept staring at me even though the gorgeous Anoushka Shankar's live image was being projected on the screen on the other side of him. At the time, these were my thoughts:

It reminds me of that time in Rochester that we stood on the footbridge to watch the sunrise.

A sliver of crescent moon clean and bright, with the sun melting behind the palm trees. I can't speak or I'll ruin the magic. The most exquisite moment, the moment I saw clearly spirit of Bharat. A lone hawk kettling low in the dying sky, singing the sitar melody that floats above the lawn. The air is so still, yet simultaneously it swirls and fills itself with music. A rustling crowd settles down and never here have I seen the masses so quiet. The audience listens with rapt attention to the maestro bent and ailing but spry and caring. 'Namaskar, Delhi-friends,' and he begins. He ends, 'Everywhere I play - Paris, London, Brussels - people ask me if this is my final performance. I do not know. I say it is only semifinal.' The whole while, there's the smile of spending half a life playing, a quarter of life tuning, and a whole life learning which the sentiment of the evening. India opens her arms to me in a cool and colorful embrace. A silver plane trailing pink smoke shoots the moon, and I feel it will reach that place. The ballet-dancing hawks are replaced by waltzing bats, and the moon overtakes the sun. The stars bashfully reveal their positions behind azure curtains thickly blanketing this sacred space. There is no room here for anything but beauty.

After living in Delhi for two months, I feel I can step back and realize how much I've learned.

I adore India and all of the sensory input that overwhelms me every day: the landscape, the ruins, the colors, the cooking, the weather, and even the dirt and mosquitoes. However, I still I feel like an outsider most of the time, and this is clearest to me when I'm walking in and around Ramjas. Students that I know speak at least some English stare at me but don't speak to me, or say hello and quickly return to conversations in Hindi. I inherently distrust all men here, which is a sad feeling, but one that has seemed necessary for me to continue my life as uninterrupted as possible. I don't make eye contact in public with any male I don't know (the ones who stare a lot tend to be the creepers, whereas the nice people keep to themselves for the most part), and most of the females are too shy or too well-trained or too...something to initiate conversations with strangers. At times, it's incredibly lonely, and I feel like there's a barrier between me and the real, complete India. There are things I feel I simply cannot access because I'm not from here. Yet, unlike at home, I cannot hide in anonymity and content myself with absorbing all of my surroundings, observing everyone and everything but remaining unobserved. Even dressed in salwar kameez and head covered in dupatta, I feel that there are always eyes on me, always people watching my every movement. And it's true. Someone is always watching, but it's more like a stage performance or a zoo exhibit than normal, friendly people-watching. Every now and then I wish I could experience India as a twenty-one-year-old male instead of as a young woman. The university students my age seem to be by and large intimidated by members of the female sex, particularly if they are American. The boys in the program have much more frequent and much more meaningful interaction with our peers because for some reason, they are less threatening. Or something. I don't really know what it is.

EDIT: As I was sitting on the grass at Ramjas this morning typing this post, two Indian boys came up and started talking to me. We went to the canteen for coffee, they showed me some parts of campus I hadn't seen before, and then we talked to a few more of their friends for a while. They were very excited to have an American friend they could use to practice and improve their English; the two boys are from Haryana, the state where our rural excursion took place, and I got the impression they're also more village boys than urban kids. They don't even speak much Hindi, so trying to hold a conversation was very funny. Neither Hindi nor English was quite sufficient, but it was a lot of fun. Exhausting, but fun. I hung out with them for about two hours. I discovered the secret to making friends on campus: pull out a laptop when you're sitting by yourself. It's like a magnet; that, or it's a big banner that says "Interesting, friendly American student!" That's how Mark Iscoe, the most popular of the boys in our group, seems to have made all his Ramjas friends. I can't believe it took me this long to discover it.

Despite feeling like I will mostly remain an outsider in India, I firmly believe that there is no other place in the world like it, and I do not for a moment regret my decision to come here. In fact, it is one of the best things (if not the best) that I've done for myself. I feel more grounded in myself, more confident and independent, more capable of finding my way through chaos, more sure of what's important to me, and better able to unravel mysteries I find around me. I'm refining my definitions of beauty, peace, and happiness, and I've seen people living in a manner that's not quite real until you experience it firsthand. I've seen both sides of the opulence-destitution continuum, and I've discovered the cultural complexities involved in so simple an act as waving to street kids or playing with them for a minute before moving on. I'm learning how to cross language barriers and built makeshift bridges across cultural gaps, even if they're only temporary. I've traveled by all means of transportation and engaged in conversation with all types of people. I'm learning new communication and language skills, realizing the value of the ones I had, and resurrecting a talent I thought I'd lost. I'm cataloguing images and sensations and collecting memories. I'm maintaining relationships that I thought slowly evaporate and letting go of things I thought would stay with me for far longer than they should.

Delhi is full of surprises, and every day is a new adventure. I feel like I could live here for a year, go to a different neighborhood every day, and still be surprised by what I find. I've also realized that I would love to come back and live in India when I'm no longer a student. The education system is sub-par compared to what I'm used to and want, and the academic side of this trip has been disappointing. I had very high expectations for my classes, and perhaps that's my fault, but I also quite simply do not jive well with the Indian teaching system and rarely feel challenged by my courses. It's frustrating to spend time commuting to classes that don't happen when there's so much I want to see and do before I leave. So my solution is to come back at some point after I graduate and find someone who will pay me to do all that exploring. :)

In summary, I am all love for India. I even love the parts that are terrible. I don't think I can ever explain properly.

I'm happy that you all have been reading my blog and looking at my pictures, and that you've been commenting, emailing, skyping, and IMing me. I've had a lot more contact with home than I thought I was going to, and I think that's made a huge difference in the way I deal with everything going on here. Thank you. :)

Namaste, good night, and happy March.