Photo credit: Samantha Michaels

Four years flew by so fast; I can’t believe it’s time to say goodbye.

(Source: State of the Re:Union)

I’m sitting on an Air India plane, in a middle seat instead of the aisle seat I requested and should have received (but obviously didn’t). It’s late and I’m tired, and I’m trying not to think too much, but it’s impossible not to think because it’s my last night in India. Tomorrow I’ll be home again in Chicago, showering without bathroom sandals, drinking water from the tap, and eating fresh fruit (unwashed, just because I can without dying).  I’ll be living life how I’ve always been living it, and I’m not quite sure how that makes me feel.

As of last night, it thrilled me. After a final day of reporting, Ashley and I were exhausted, and we agreed that it was time to say goodbye to India. I was still sick; Ashley had found a huge squirming bug on her plate at dinner; and a lizard was back again in our shower. The next time we do a reporting grant, we agreed, we’re doing it in Paris.  There should not be wildlife in food or showers. In my book, dinner should not be moving when you try to eat it.

Then I opened an e-mail from my friend Anoop, and my perspective changed. The e-mail described his recent trip to Bihar, one of the poorest states in India. Anoop went there to evaluate whether it might be a good location for a new public health project he’s planning. What did he find?  Teenage boys who weigh about 50 pounds, and malnourished children with no food to eat. Families who live without running water and electricity, and whole villages who survive without any sanitation system. People wake up in the morning to relieve themselves in fields, and they get polio because there is so much human waste around. I can’t even remember the other details, I think I’ve blocked them out because they were too sad.

After finishing the e-mail, I felt horrible for venting about my own inconveniences. What was the problem again? A lizard in my shower and a bug in Ashley’s food? I’ve been living a life of luxury compared to the people in Bihar. Families should have running water, electricity and toilets. Children should have food to eat so they can grow big and strong and happy. Somebody should do something to help them. It’s just not fair.

Now on this airplane home, I’m thinking about all of it again, even though I should be sleeping and I’m trying not to think. I’m remembering Anoop’s e-mail, I’m remembering the highs and lows of this trip, I’m trying to sort through images of slum children and monks with rainbow umbrellas. I’m trying to make sense of it all, trying to make sense of the way I felt when I saw them and the way I feel right now. Happy sad angry excited alive, all at once. And then it hits me.

In India, you’ve got to throw away your notions of what should and shouldn’t be.

Throughout my trip, there were times when I hated India (mostly when I was sick) and times when I Ioved it (mostly when I was healthy). During the bad times, I think I was unhappy because I was fighting against the way things were. I took two motion sickness pills, so I shouldn’t get sick on the bus (but I did). I’ve been drinking bottled water and avoiding fresh fruits/vegetables, so there shouldn’t be parasites in my intestines (but there are). The man on my flight should not have answered his phone during take-off (oh he did), and my rickshaw driver should not have tried speeding the wrong way down a one-way street (yes, that too). The poor slum boy selling coke should have had pants on his bum (so sad), and the beggar outside the Dalai Lama’s monastery should not have been blind or hungry (reality stings). I should have had running water (nope) and my food should have been bug-free (oh well). Life should not be so exhausting all the time. It just shouldn’t.

The thing is, should and shouldn’t are terribly tiring—especially when they’ve ordered your life forever but nobody else actually cares about them. In India, the rules I knew so well in the United States seemed to disappear. Prices changed depending upon the vendor’s mood and the buyer’s level of foreignness. Road rules changed depending upon god knows what, and everything seemed negotiable all the time. Nothing went the way I thought it should, no matter how hard I tried.

But looking back, that’s also what I love so much about this place. There is an amazing sense of liberation in the lawlessness, a real beauty that makes everything come alive. I probably shouldn’t have eaten two masla dosas in a row, but I did and it was wonderful. I probably shouldn’t have been out in Bangalore at eleven o’clock at night, but I was and it was a rush I won’t forget. I never imagined I’d be meeting influential Tibetan freedom fighters in little nondescript bookstores, because that’s not where influential freedom fighters should be hanging out. But sometimes they are, and sometimes you just get lucky.

When I learned to forget about how things are “supposed” to be, India gave me so much more than I ever could have bargained for. I was somehow able to traverse the country from north to south, visiting three cities and meeting the Tibetan communities who live there. I was able to speak with incredible college students, to hear their stories and learn a thing or two in the process. I was able to ride rickshaws and cook momos and haggle with funny shopkeepers. I was able to break some of my own rules (get fruits, vegetables, exercise and a shower in every day), and I was able to see that I’ll survive anyway.

It should. It shouldn’t.  Who cares? After India, I’m resolved to remember that life is so beautiful simply because it is.

I can’t believe it: my time in India is almost over. Part of me is so ready to go, but part of me can’t believe I’m leaving.

Things I miss about home:

1. Health. Simply put, I’m sick of being sick. In the past month I’ve been bed-ridden in two cities and I’ve fainted in another. I’ve been to some crowded, uncomfortable hospitals, and I’ve had my fair share of stomachaches. I need to cleanse my body and feel healthy again.

2. Raw fruits and veggies. I’ve missed them dearly. Get me an orange and be my best friend for life.

3. Quiet streets. The endless honking in Indian city streets is quite an adjustment. I think I’d prefer it here with earplugs.

4. Hygiene. It’ll be nice to know that if I want to take a shower, I’ll probably have running water. I also probably won’t find a lizard sitting on the showerhead.

Things I’ll miss once I’m home:

1. Indian food. Spicy vegetable curry and naan, dal and rice, masala dosa, chai, laissis… and there are sill so many dishes I want to taste.

2. Reporting. Though it’s been exhausting, I’ve absolutely loved this little stint of international journalism. I hope I can have more opportunities to try again later down the road.

3. Surprise and adventure. The rickshaw driver that attempts to save time by traveling the wrong direction down a busy one way street. The man on my domestic flight who starts talking on his cell phone during takeoff. The ant-farm in my dresser and the lizard in my bathroom. Well, I won’t actually miss them, but I’ll miss how you’ve got to laugh at things like them, because life is just more fun that way.

4. The break from Internet and technology. Yes, I was still checking e-mail and blogging, but I was no longer glued to my laptop like I am at home. It was nice to know that life still goes on even if I don’t check Facebook.

5. Embracing simplicity. Since I was living out of a backpack and I don’t have a very strong back, I couldn’t take too many things with me on this trip. Just a few changes of clothes and a few of the basic necessities. It’ll be good to have more options, but it was also kind of  wonderful knowing that I don’t need too much to be happy.

6. Incredibly kind people I’ve met along the way. From Anoop’s family to the Tibetan community in exile, so many strangers have gone out of their way to help me. I think I’ll miss them the most.

Nawang Dorjee shows us a model of the school.

Nawang Dorjee is the principal of the TCV College in Bangalore, and we’ve been communicating with him through e-mail for several months. Since the beginning I’ve been a little scared of him, mostly because his writing style seemed somewhat harsh to me. Lately, as we’ve gotten closer to our first meeting, I’ve tried to imagine what he might be like. Would he be mean? Would he bite? (Kidding on that last one, kind of).

Now we’re here, at the TCV College, in Nawang’s office. It’s post-interview and we’re chatting on a comfortable couch. We’re sipping masala chai tea and Nawang is inviting us to lunch. He’s awesome. And he’s he’s laughing. He’s laughing because he’s telling  us about his experience at a Dude Ranch in Colorado, and I imagine him in a cowboy hat. I’m laughing, too.

This is unexpected. This is excellent. This is typical.

This is my final day of reporting in India.

Working on this journalism project has been more fun than I could have ever imagined. Ashley and I tried to plan a lot before we arrived, but I’m honestly surprised that we managed to pull everything off. Somehow we managed to make it to all three cities, and we managed to meet all our contacts. We spoke with incredible students and teachers, and we heard some truly amazing things. The Tibetan people were welcoming, warm, open and kind. I am so grateful for their help, and I hope we can do their stories justice when we finally put together our project.

I thought I was in the clear. With just a few more days until my departure from India, I assumed I had outsmarted any more sneaky illnesses.  No more parasites for me, home-free at last.

Or not. I woke up Sunday morning but never really woke up, and within an hour of leaving my bed I was racing back to pass out in it. I suppose making it out healthy would have been too easy, and that’s no fun at all, right?

The universe must have been planning this final illness, because our guesthouse was right across the street from St. Martha’s Hospital. After risking life and limb to jay-walk through an unending stampede of rickshaws, cars, bicycles and buses, Ashley and I made it into the hospital quarters. When we first entered my eyes struggled to adjust to the darkness, and then I saw that the place was packed with sick Indian patients. Once again, we were the only foreigners in sight, and people unabashedly stared in our direction.

We walked to an inquiry counter and a snappy woman directed us around the corner to register. When we rounded the turn, we came upon a new space with several long lines going in different directions. We found our line and took our place—or at least we tried to. People were pushing up behind us, and it was loud and everyone was talking. A woman was suddenly cutting in front of us, and I could feel somebody breathing on the back of my neck.  I knew I had to sit down or I’d faint. If Ashley wasn’t there to save my spot, I’m not sure what I would have done.

Thirty to 40 minutes later, the registration process was over and we headed upstairs to see a doctor. We found more lines, more people, more yelling, and lots of benches. A screen with numbers changed slowly, counting up higher and higher. I was number 94. I collapsed on a seat and tried to pretend I was somewhere else.

When my number finally rang, I went to see the doctor. I expected to go into a closed room and chat, but there’s no such thing as privacy at St. Martha’s Hospital. I was ushered to a table with four chairs. Doctors sat at two, I sat in one, and another patient sat right beside me. A nurse pushed Ashley inside so she was standing a few feet away. The door into the main hall was open, and more patients were waiting outside. Another open door to another room with even more people was also nearby. My doctor raised her eyes from paperwork to me.

“So, tell me (and the world), what’s the problem?” I started sharing my health history and answering questions. How much have I been eating? How often have I been going to the bathroom? What does it look like when I do go to the bathroom? Can I describe the texture? You know, information that I love sharing with lots and lots of strangers.

My doctor pulled out a little tin medical box and began to take my blood pressure. When she saw how low it was, she wasn’t quite sure what to do (she didn’t strike me as the most competent doctor in the world). Still, I was happy because she eventually wrote me a prescription for medicine. (Later I was not so pleased, because she failed to mention that this medicine would make me much more sick before it could make me feel better. I suppose I should have known to ask).

With prescription in hand, I returned to the chaotic waiting room to find the pharmacy section (and an even longer, even pushier line). Again, I thought I was going to pass out if I didn’t sit down, so Ashley saved the day and fought for my pills instead. After what seemed like hours, she called my name and I stood to leave. I needed to escape the hospital pandemonium. I dragged my feet downstairs, through the registration section and outside into honking and traffic. Hallelujah.

Back in bed, I got to thinking about the difference between my American and Indian hospital experiences. In Bangalore, if you want to be seen you’ve got to be aggressive. You’ve got to stand in line and stand your guard, pushing up against the sick person in front of you. That’s just how the system works. But if you’re so sick you can hardly see straight, let alone stand straight, how are you supposed to get help? Had Ashley not been by my side, I don’t think I could have even registered.

In the United States, we take our nice hospitals for granted. Once you’re through the doors, there are nurses to guide you from chair to examining table and back. It’s clean and usually quiet. You basically just have to sit, because there are staff members around to take care of you. But (and there’s always a but), you’ve also got to have good insurance or a steep pocket.  My trip to St. Martha’s Hospital in Bangalore cost me about $3—including the cost of two medicines. I got in, I got out, I kept my wallet. What’s the better system?

At the time of my illness, I would have opted for the American experience in a second. A sick person does not want to go through torture in order to get better, especially when she’s already in so much pain. Still, maybe it’s not necessary to be as pampered as we are in the United States, because comfort costs money and money is not in unlimited supply. I’m not really sure what the solution is. The only moral I can draw from my story is this: While it’s never fun to share bathroom details with strangers, $3 medical visits are a pretty good deal. To be honest, though, if I ever fall sick in Bangalore again, I’m splurging and looking for help outside of St. Martha’s.

I’m also reserving the right to shoot spitballs at any tone-deaf choir child who has the audacity to sing outside of my bedroom. The world has been warned.

Spotted on a walk through town.

In a speedy rickshaw on the way home after dinner, we weave between lanes toward the YMCA guesthouse. We almost hit a motorcycle driver and cars are honking, but I don’t mind at all. It’s been a good, exhausting day, and I’m feeling happy. I think back on the afternoon’s activities. Ashley and I spent hours walking through Bangalore, making a pilgrimage to the MTR restaurant on Lalbaugh road. We got lost several times but we finally found it around 5 pm. Since dinner wasn’t open yet, we had a snack of masala dosa and then went next door to watch a movie at the cinema. The film happened to be Avatar, which neither of us had seen, and we sat in a huge theater with many Indian families. I smiled whenever our neighbors heckled loudly at the screen, which happened whenever there was any hinting of sexual tension between two of the main characters.. Afterward the movie we went back to MTR for dinner, and we stuffed ourselves with delicious south Indian food and sweets. The waiters were wearing white skirts of some kind, and none of them had shoes. The meal was phenomenal and it only cost us $3. And then we found a rickshaw home.

And here I am, continuing along some road I don’t know, and the air is cool, and I’m loving India.

Then the vehicle stops, and the driver asks us where to go. We point to our address again, and he says it’s impossible to get there. One-way streets, he says, his rickshaw can’t get through. Though we already agreed on a price, he smiles and says he’ll need 500 rupees to take us the round-about way. No thanks, we’re not too far anyway. We get out of the rickshaw and start to walk. I’m a little scared because it’s 11 p.m., and I’m not sure we should be out so late. We’re power walking and I’m freaking myself out, terrified that we’re going to be attacked or something. There were dozens of cockroaches on one of the earlier sidewalks, and I’m afraid I’m going to stumble upon more of them. Then a rat sprints out of nowhere and hits Ashley’s foot, and we scream and move faster. I want to be home I want to be home I want to be in my bed. I’d rather hang out with that lizard in my shower than a nasty rat on the street. Finally we make it back, up to our room. I’m sweating, I’m panting, my heart is beating a million miles a minute. And I’m also still smiling.

During a taxi ride from the airport into Bangalore, I look out the window with a sigh of relief: I think there will be room to breathe here. In addition to snack shacks and heaps of garbage near the road, I see lots of green, and some empty spaces in the highway lanes—a wonderful relief after Delhi. Thin boys ride bikes and auto-rickshaws, everyone buzzing forward. Motorcycles speed by with Indian men at the wheel, their girlfriends or wives in back with saris draped carefully on their sides. A half hour passes, and we are finally into the city.

The Basics: With a fast-growing economy and global outlook, Bangalore is known as the IT capital of India. Its reputation is obvious right away, as a giant Yahoo sign stands boldly not far outside the airport. Closer into the city, there’s an interesting mix of Indian culture and global influence. On one road I’ll notice that most women are wearing traditional clothes and teenage boys are offering little cups of masala chai, but then I’ll spot a high-end shop like Gucci or a fast-food chain like KFC. On one street I’m surrounded by businessmen in collared shirts, then I turn a corner and the sidewalks disappear, there are dozens of cockroaches, and dirty storefronts line the way.

The Lodging: Ashley and I are staying at the YMCA guesthouse, and yes, YMCA is the same thing you know from the United States. It was one of the cheapest options we could find, and it seemed nice enough at first, but lately things are getting a bit odd. Our room faces out onto this indoor sports facility, and in the morning we wake up to the sounds of old Indian men grunting as they exercise. The other night I opened the bathroom door to go take a shower, and I found a giant lizard resting next to the shower-head. This morning I discovered that an ant-farm is basically nesting in one of our bureaus. Home sweet home.

The Tourists: Not many. Despite the commercial globalization, Ashley and I seem to be the only foreigners. Once when we joined a big crowd to watch a traditional Indian dance performance, the news cameras came over and pointed straight at me for an awkward 15 seconds. A token diversity shot.  People frequently stare but it’s fun to explore and I mostly don’t mind.

The Shopping: Silk saris, pashmina shawls, incense, little wooden elephants and decorative boxes. If I go into a shop and even make a single look at something, five salespeople will come over and start pulling everything off the shelves. This statue is made of the finest wood, and it will look just as beautiful in 100 years! This scarf is made of pure silk, the most desirable silk in all of India!

The Food: One of our staples is a snack called masala dosa. It’s basically a pancake made with rice and lentil flour, filled with a bit of potato and onion and complemented with a side of coconut or tomato chutney.  Everyone eats with their right hands, and there are sinks in most restaurants to wash up afterward. We went to one place last night for dinner and all the waiters walked around barefoot (Don’t worry, the place got good reviews in a guidebook so I think it was legit). The spices are great, but I’m still craving fruit and I’m starting to miss the bland oatmeal in Mcleod Ganj. Still, overall I’m digging south Indian food.

Kunsang is a Tibetan college student with a purple t-shirt and a thick puff of black hair. He was born in Tibet, and at the age of about 13 he convinced the government to publish an anthology of his articles and poems (smart guy). In a streak of rebellion, he slipped in a few extra statements about Tibet right before the piece went to print. When the anthology came out, it created quite the stir in his local community, attracting the attention (and wrath) of Chinese officials. Kunsang was blacklisted, and his family worried that he would get in serious trouble. As a solution, his uncles proposed that he travel to India for refuge and a real education. Although his mother and sister objected, Kunsang decided to go. At that point, he was just 14 years old.

The escape took two tries. The first time Kunsang attempted to cross the border he was caught by Chinese guards and thrown into jail. He said he was beaten regularly for a few months until he was finally able to pay bond to get out. Shortly thereafter, he attempted to escape again—this time successfully. From Tibet to Nepal to India, Kunsang settled near Dharamsala and enrolled in a TCV school with other Tibetan students. Today he lives in Delhi, studying at Delhi University and boarding at the Tibetan Youth Hostel—where I met him just two days ago.

Kunsang’s story is incredible, but the really amazing thing is that it’s not that out of the ordinary, at least not for Tibetan students in India. In fact, the highlight of my trip came last night at the hostel when I got to sit and chat with a group of about 15 Tibetan college students about their experiences. Ashley and I were conducting a sort of roundtable discussion in the hostel library, and we hoped to talk a little about education, culture, identity and Tibetan independence.

Seated at a table beneath dim lights, I listened in awe as the students spoke so passionately about the Chinese occupation of Tibet.  Despite some of their ideological differences, it was clear that they all love and miss their country dearly. The ones who were born in Tibet talked about their desire to go home, and some of them haven’t seen their families in ten years. The ones who were born in India talked about their desire to see for themselves the homeland they’ve heard so much about. And they all agreed that, here in this Delhi hostel, the group of them had become like brothers and sisters. I could tell they would do anything to help each other.

It was surreal to hear about their experiences, especially when I think about my own life. When I was 14 years old, I lived at home with my mom and spent my days doodling in math class or looking forward to afternoon basketball practice. When they were 14, they were crossing mountain passes to become refugees in a foreign country. Today I’m going to college and they’re going to college, but while I’m worried about finding a post-graduation job, they’re worried about saving their country and their culture. I wish I could have stayed longer with them at that library table, because although we were all basically the same ages, I feel like I have so much to learn from their stories.

I’m standing on the Delhi metro, near the back door that doesn’t open or close. It’s lunchtime and we’re heading to Connaught Place, a hub in Delhi that’s known for its good hotels and restaurants.   The train is packed with people, but Ashley and I are clearly the only foreigners on board. It’s humid and hot, probably more than 100 degrees in the sun. I look outside and watch the buildings pass, their colors seem a bit faded. I’m feeling nauseous, which makes me nervous, because last night I got sick several times on an overnight bus ride from Mcleod Ganj to Delhi. I turn to Ashley and say, “I think I need to cool it on public transportation.” I look back out the window. Everything is passing so quickly but it’s all blurry now, things are getting lost in the heat waves. My head starts pounding, I’m dizzy, lightheaded, I turn and say Ashley’s name softly, and suddenly, for just a moment, my world goes white. With eyes closed, I’m asking, “How many more stops?” My head is still spinning. “Two more,” I hear. “Do you need me to help you walk?” The train slows and I move onto the platform, looking for a place to sit. I feel weak, and then shocked, because Ashley tells me something I didn’t expect.

Apparently, my world had gone white for much longer than a moment.

I have no recollection of this, but I fainted this afternoon on the Delhi metro. When we got off the train, Ashley said my face had gone pale, and my lips had turned the color of my skin. I had fallen onto her body, and a bunch of Indian men had rushed over to help us. I’m not really sure how long I was out, or when I came back, or why I lost consciousness. Maybe I was just dehydrated and hungry. Maybe some lunch would help.

Thus began a rather epic quest through Delhi for food. Given our location, Connaught Place, we assumed we’d find a restaurant quickly, but we were very wrong. It was strange, because we expected to see loads of tourist, but we didn’t find any at all. Once again, we were the only ones who stuck out. We also didn’t see anywhere to eat, so we stopped to ask some people.  Unfortunately, we only got one of three answers: “I don’t know,” “No restaurants,” or “McDonalds in the metro.” This was rather bad news for me, because I hate McDonalds with a fiery passion. When I was little I used to cry if my family went through the drive-through because I couldn’t stand the smell. To this day I despise ketchup, and the color combination of red and yellow makes me feel sick. But as the dizzy spells started coming back, I knew that desperate times called for very desperate measures.

“A McVeggie burger, please. Plain.” Munching on my burger in the crowded fast-food joint, I couldn’t help but smile a little at the situation. Ashley and I had been so excited for the food in Delhi, and we had trekked so far for lunch this afternoon, and here we were, sitting amidst red and yellow and lots of ketchup.

It’s funny how things turn out some times. Like everyone always warned us, nothing in India goes according to plan. Back at the hotel room, we learned that we hadn’t been to Connaught Place at all. The ticket cashier either misunderstood or lied, sending us on some wild goose chase through north Delhi for a few McDonalds burgers.

Still, as bad as it gets sometimes, things do get better. My color is back and I’m feeling stronger. Now that I’ve got some food in my system, I’m actually kind of amused by the whole situation. And anyways, I’ve got to make a name for myself somehow in this big chaotic city. So now one day when I’m old, gray, well-traveled and much wiser, I can look back and say, “Remember that time I fainted on the Delhi metro and ate at McDonalds?” I think it’ll be impossible for me to forget.

Delhi roads mean endless honking

After 12 hours on a bus, I’m back in Delhi for a second visit, but it seems like I’ve landed in a completely new city. Last time I was with Anoop and his family, eating delicious meals at a dining room table and sightseeing through the windows of an air-conditioned car. Now Ashley and I are on our own, and it’s hot and something smells bad. The bus has just dropped us off on the side of a busy highway, and I’m swatting at an army of flies that are actively trying to eat my face. Taxi drivers are attempting to rip us off, and we’re arguing with one to get the price down. One hundred rupees? No way, we were told it should cost fifty.  Eventually we pile into an auto-rickshaw with all of our bags, and the driver starts moving along bumpy roads. After a few wrong turns and some stops for direction, we de-board and turn to our new, temporary home: Delhi’s Tibetan Youth Hostel. About 200 Tibetan university students live here together, and many of them study at Delhi University There’s a boy’s dormitory and a girl’s dormitory, a cute library and a cafeteria. Munching on white bread and jam for breakfast, I feel a little out of place because I’m the only non-Asian person here, though I suppose I should be used to sticking out at this point. Delhi take two has taken me by surprise. Let’s see what it has in store for me next.