As I finish up my last two weeks of work, the heat and humidity grow more stifling and oppressive. This morning on my way to the office, I was thinking: what have I learned here? What WAS my purpose in this city, now that I'm leaving? Already drenched in sweat from my brief walk to the station I waited for the train in the slim bar of a shadow, created by a steel beam against the already burning 8 a.m. sunrise. Here's what I came up with.
1. It's not (supposed to be) about the material stuff
To India I am leaving behind my SLR camera, my wallet, cash, a plane ticket that I won't be reimbursed for, and more...some of my sanity, a youthful look on my face, perhaps. India ate that, too! I don't think I learned Not to care about the material things. But I exchanged many material things for a beautiful nightmare, and I dealt with it, and that comes without a price tag.
2. YES HORN PLEASE
It seems like every prospect that Bombay offered was met with a polite declination on my part. Like a demanding child, the city bombarded me with unfamiliar, uncomfortable questions and decisions and requests and sounds and smells and inconveniences, many to which I responded, "WTF?!" in my mind. That city siphoned up all of my energy by the end of each day. The memory of silence was forgotten. The city encourages relentless noise, from the "YES HORN PLEASE" sign painted on the back of each truck, to the swarming throngs of people and cars and heat and trains and bicycles and crying babies and vendors selling coconuts...the list goes on. Here, it's sink or swim...and I was treading heavily. I managed to accept it and I did, somehow, survive.
3. Horrifying yet fascinating: my favorite combination
The things I have hated the most about India I also loved: the throngs of people on the train, the chaos, the noise, the stares, the occasional pungent wafting of incense combined with other unidentifiable odors into my rickshaw each morning, and the inconveniences that I have never before encountered in such extremes. I was thrown together into a city where Bollywood stars walk shoulder to shoulder with the homeless, where people sleep on the medians at midday. Needless to say, it was a complicated relationship but I tried to accept everything for what it was. Bombay is not for ninnies.
4. Just let go.
Nothing can be perfect, and Bombay is just that: take it or leave it. Perhaps this blog showcased my complaints, but I feel it was a shelf upon which I displayed my crazy collection of experiences. I know that when I get back to my home village, the silence will be deafening. I suppose I have changed in that I have learned to accept an environment of chaos more than deny it. And for the rest of my life I'll just laugh when someone complains about a "traffic jam" unless I'm experiencing it in Delhi, where there's not even a method to the madness.
5. It's okay to be different
In India, it was simple to spot me in a crowd. Beggars and cripples and mango vendors and children selling vases and hawkers make their way to me first because I was such an easy target. I'm not married, and I don't have kids, and I don't need to. And yes, keep staring. Because I don't even notice anymore. All the world's a stage!
6. India was my classroom
India, although I will only have been here for seven months, was a master guru. What I learned here is not something that can easily be explained on my CV or have any financial worth. I see it as my last hurrah long-term abroad (for this decade, I think), and an experience that jarred my most set beliefs and ideals. For that, I am grateful. And Frank Sinatra had it wrong. It's whether you "can make it" in Bombay (NOT New York) that you "can make it" anywhere.
7. Persistence pays off
Something that Indians taught me, whether beggars or businessmen, is that you should never give up. I think success comes from believing in yourself, or as Einstein put it, only a little inspiration with a lot of perspiration. I'll keep that in mind as I return to my homeland and seek a job in a tanked economy with 8.25% unemployment. Bring it on. JAI HO!
Monday, March 16, 2009
My OCD with Textiles
I have a small problem. It's called fabric addiction. I am completely obsessed with the high quality and quantity of raw Indian spun silks, linen, cotton, and other natural fibers available on the subcontinent. India's fabric selection, certainly, is one of its finest and strongest assets.
The fabric store, which I have been frequenting at a rate of about once per week, actually assigned a personal assistant to me for every time I arrive at the shop. If he is with clients, he finds an assistant for them and comes out to greet me. They all know my name. They serve me tea within five minutes of arrival. Yes: it is ridiculous.
One night I needed a new sari for work. There is something really sensual about the Indian sari: It shows a woman's curves but with such modesty and elegance, it's much like a Greek or Roman toga. On that night at the shop I found a jade green, pure silk sari with a gold border. One of the men came forward to drape the sari, and it was quite entertaining to watch him in the mirror as he made every effort to avoid coming into contact with my body. When it was done, I was walking back and forth across the room for an audience of the shopkeepers in front of the mirror-covered wall, feeling (and looking, perhaps) like an ancient goddess. I then chose a gold fabric with a contrasting pattern against the border for the blouse, which I had stitched.
I cannot describe the feeling of standing around and so nonchalantly selecting fabric that can (perhaps) be found nowhere else. It's like I'm in Narnia or a Tolkien novel, running my fingers over the rich textures and patterns unknown to other Westerners who have never been here and knowing that this is the stuff Armani and all the designers import for their new season lines. Shockingly, even "Irish linen" is spun here.
Advised by my trusty fabric consultant, Hiran, we go through the reams of new arrivals and choose some things for my tailor. At the end, I've spent around $20-30 for around six-seven meters of fabric. So between this fabric and the fabulous work of my tailor, I feel like the Barbie doll of the richest girl in town. No doubt I will miss this aspect of my life here.
The fabric store, which I have been frequenting at a rate of about once per week, actually assigned a personal assistant to me for every time I arrive at the shop. If he is with clients, he finds an assistant for them and comes out to greet me. They all know my name. They serve me tea within five minutes of arrival. Yes: it is ridiculous.
One night I needed a new sari for work. There is something really sensual about the Indian sari: It shows a woman's curves but with such modesty and elegance, it's much like a Greek or Roman toga. On that night at the shop I found a jade green, pure silk sari with a gold border. One of the men came forward to drape the sari, and it was quite entertaining to watch him in the mirror as he made every effort to avoid coming into contact with my body. When it was done, I was walking back and forth across the room for an audience of the shopkeepers in front of the mirror-covered wall, feeling (and looking, perhaps) like an ancient goddess. I then chose a gold fabric with a contrasting pattern against the border for the blouse, which I had stitched.
I cannot describe the feeling of standing around and so nonchalantly selecting fabric that can (perhaps) be found nowhere else. It's like I'm in Narnia or a Tolkien novel, running my fingers over the rich textures and patterns unknown to other Westerners who have never been here and knowing that this is the stuff Armani and all the designers import for their new season lines. Shockingly, even "Irish linen" is spun here.
Advised by my trusty fabric consultant, Hiran, we go through the reams of new arrivals and choose some things for my tailor. At the end, I've spent around $20-30 for around six-seven meters of fabric. So between this fabric and the fabulous work of my tailor, I feel like the Barbie doll of the richest girl in town. No doubt I will miss this aspect of my life here.
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