Ill

I'm ill with a cold. Non-stop runny nose and itchy eyes.

Consequently, I haven't done much the past couple of days. Though, as brought to my attention by a post commentor, I haven't explained what I'm doing here/how I got here.

This past year has been very difficult for me. I suppose, most of it has been general "growing pains." Nonetheless it has been tough. I have been constantly trying to battle my overwhelming tendency to create unattainable expectations. And throw in a break-up, the end of my collegiate carreer, and body image problems---there's some stuff to sift through. I had felt purposeless and directionless for a long time.

I figured that if I didn't know exactly what I wanted to do: my energies would be best directed towards a humanitarian cause. So I printed out some applications (including one for Peacecorps that's still sitting on my desk). But nothing seemed to be the obvious "right" choice.

Spring Break (in March) rolled around and I was extremely lethargic and depressed. (To be home for a week and not once go shopping at Short Hills or go out in New York; yes, I was definitely depressed.) One night got so bad that I walked around the ground floor of my house crying for no reason: feeling like there was nowhere to go (figuratively speaking). That same night I got into bed and as I went to turn off my bedside lamp I noticed a grossly exaggerated shadow in the corner of my eye.

I jumped back and saw a house centipede on my wall.

Let me just give some backstory on my feelings about house centipedes. I HATE house centipedes. I love everything in this world; I'm a peaceful vegetarian. But, I HATE house centipedes. I swear, if Hell had a mascot: it would be the house centipede. And, unfortunately, house centipedes love my house.

Anyhow, sleeping was out of the question, now that I knew a house centipede was alive in the room. I called a friend of mine and asked him to provide me with encouragement and strength as I mustered up the courage to kill it. The problem was I couldn't just smash it; its guts would stain the white wall. I would have to knock it off the wall and then kill it while it was on the carpet. But I couldn't knock it off the wall because it was currently right over my bed. If it fell behind my bed who knows if I would ever see it again?

After a series of strategic taps on the wall, I got it to move. Though it started running up my wall. Faster and faster until it was too high for me to knock off. I sat there like a panther: patiently eyeing its prey.

The minutes passed and it just sat comfortably where the wall met the ceiling. Its disgusting striped body just staring at me---mocking me. "You can't reach me! You can't kill me! You can't go to sleep if you know I'm alive! I have a million legs and I'm going to crawl all over your face if you go to sleep!"

So, I stared at it; pretending my focus would will him downward. And to my surpise, it worked! It started running down the wall, but now it was directly over a window. To keep tabs on it, I opened the vertical blinds. The moment I saw him, I struck---spraying Paul Mitchell hairspray all over it. It tumbled to the carpet and I felt the oncoming victory. I kept spraying and the centipede, in literal slow motion, came to a halt.

HA HA! I killed you! You fiend! (I really hate house centipedes...)

It was 4:00am. Pretty early considering I hadn't been going to bed till 8 or 9am for the past week. I got into bed and dozed away knowing that stupid house centipede wouldn't have the gratification of walking all over my face.

*Squint*

What time was it? The windows in my room were on the west wall, and their shades were always drawn. Why is it light in here? That stupid centipede made me open the shades. Sucker! You're too dead to laugh!

I tried to go back to sleep but I couldn't. Ugh. I got showered because "Hey, I haven't done this in a few days and I'm starting to smell." As I was getting dressed my cell phone buzzed. The Caller ID displayed a number with my local area code. Who is this?

"Hello?"
"Hi Niral. This is Aunty from across the street. I have your acne cream for you---so pick it up when you get the chance."
"Oh sure! Thank you. I'll be there soon."

My Indian neighbor is our family pharmacist and provides me with acne cream (Such effective acne cream, that some of my friends have started to use it and have dubbed it "acne chutney" in honor of its Indian creator). Odd. Usually she drops it off with the rest of the family's meds. Or she mails it to me at school. Why the personal phone call?

I looked outside the picture window on the 2nd floor and noticed how beautiful it was outside. Sun rays hit me in the face, as I descended the staircase to the kitchen where I'd eat breakfast. It's been months since I've had breakfust during a morning hour. I sat down with some Trix and felt strangely peaceful. Tired, but surprisingly not cranky. Let's go pick up my acne cream.

Across the street I went, and knocked on my aunt's doors. She answered the door and invited me in. Everything is a social visit with Indian people. I took off my shoes and she showed me to her formal dining room. The Dining Room? She closed the French doors behind us and gestured to a chair. I sat down. She then handed me an envelope. Gee, the packaging for acne cream has really changed.

"Niral. You mentioned to me over Winter Break that you wanted to do some humanitarian work. I know of a program in a heart institute in Baroda; I submitted your name and credentials and receieved this letter. I haven't opened it yet."

...

Confused I opened the letter. Inside was the strangest thing: an acceptance letter. An all expense paid trip to India to work as an intern in a heart institute. What's going on? I smiled. "Thank you aunty." She then gave me a brown bag. There's the acne cream.

On my walk home I thought, "I don't know if I believe in signs from God. But, I don't know how often people get acceptances to internships they never applied for." I immediately told my Mom who was thrilled. And in an instant, I could see light shining through my dark cloud of depression. I have somewhere to go. I have something to do. I have something I want to do.

Quite lliterally, after my darkest hour, I was granted with a beautiful and life-changing day. And all because of my mortal enemy, the house centipede.

Showers and Haircuts

India really agrees with me. Aside from having a little bit of a cold, these first two days in India have been nothing short of great.

But, I must point out in particular the bathing. I thought that I was going to have some trouble adjusting to Eastern-style bathing. For those of you who are unfamiliar, in the bathing room there is a faucet and a bucket. That's it. No overhead showerhead. It's much more environmentally friendly. However, coming from the West where you are in a separated stall with constant running water, this style of bathing is signifcantly different.

I have to say that it was a total pleasure though. The Eastern style of bathing is so much more tactile. You have to use your hands four times as much because you don't have the running water hitting your body (doing much of the "bathing" for you). And, consequently, it is much more of a sensual experience. There is so much more relationship-building with your body: which is a weird thing to say but I'm not sure how else to articulate it. There is also something so natural about bathing from a basin filled with water. It's how you would bathe in a lake or something. (Though I guess showering in the West is how you would bathe under a waterfall...or something).

So I'm already having sensual experiences rubbing soap all over my body. Who knows where this trip is going to take me?

Today, I went to get my haircut. For those who don't know me, I am THE most particular person I know about getting my hair cut. I am very hesitant to let anyone cut my hair for fear it will be too short or cut in the wrong shape. Well, I went into this small barber shop that was probably the size of a freshman dorm room. I sat down to wait my turn: already prepared to have a terrible haircut. "No one is going to judge me here. My hair can always grow back," I reassured myself.

The barber showed me to my chair and asked me to remove my glasses. (Now, if you don't have myopia this is an experience that you could never understand. When a barber askes me to remove my glasses it's like going under anesthesia. I can't really see anything and all of the power is in his hands.) So I removed my glasses. And he PARTED my hair and began to cut. So, there it was. I was going to have a bowl cut with a side part. No, this was awesome. Even underprivilaged kids in Indian slums would laugh at me. I would BECOME an underprivilaged kid in an Indian slum with this haircut. Great.

Cut Cut Cut. And then all of a sudden the oddest thing. He got a giant bottle of rose colored oil and pour some in his palm. He rubbed his hands together and worked it into my scalp. "Great," I thought. "Now he's treating me for dry scalp. Now he and everyone else in this stupid barber shop thinks I don't take care of my scalp. I fu%$ing take care of my scalp." But now he was rubbing really hard. And it had been a couple of minutes. He was palming my head like an NBA player would a basketball. Rub Rub Rub.

And then down to my neck: the warm oil assisting his rough hands. The barber, listening to the comedian on the TV set, giggled to himself.

Wait. Was this a MASSAGE? Yes, it was. He continued to rub my back and my arms and my hands. For 25 minutes. Oh yes, 25 minutes. "Jo, eh bho lal-lal thagyo chaii," said the barber. "Senseeteeve skin." He had said that my neck and arms and face had turned red from the massage. Apparently I have "senseeteeve skin."

So finally, after this unbelievable massage, I'm finally allowed to put my glasses back on. My hair looked GREAT. Are you kidding me? I guess these people know Indian hair or something. I politely smiled and pulled out my wallet. He said, "Ninety."

Ninety. Ninety rupees? That's two dollars. He spent more than half an hour on me. I gave him 90 and tipped him 100. When I get my checks cashed and go to get my haircut again I'll tip him 200. That service in America would have easily costed $50-$100 depending on where you are.

I want to get my haircut everyday.

Arrival in India

I'm sitting here in the "Skyber Cafe" at Mumbai's domestic airport (a brief but sweaty bus ride away from the more-or-less solid-marble international airport). I think I see people eating microwaved pizza. The sign over the monitor says 0-60 MINUTES RS 60/-. Sixty rupees is the rough equivalent to a $1.20. Compare that to say, London, where I spent a pound for every 10 minutes online. (1 pound being roughly 2 dollars). So, initial investigations of India prove that London is 12 times more expensive than India. More on that soon.

I have been in transit for roughly 24 hours at this point. It's 1:39PM here and the heat is expectedly intolerable (about 94 degrees Farenheit with 52% humidity). But I'm tolerating it. I'm realizing now, that some of the projects that I want to be involved with are related to outdoors construction. I think I'd die of heat stroke if I tried to tie a shoelace outside; I don't know if I can manage heavy lifting. But, then again, I've never been much of a laborer. (It's tough to distinguish when I'm joking online.)

I've already begun making friends with random aunties: carrying their bags from them, wishing their recently high-school graduated children good luck. (I figure in India, EVERYONE is my auntie.) Unfortunately, I haven't encountered too many noteworthy people/things yet. But as soon as I do, I will share.

What I do know is that I'm glad to be here. I already find myself forgetting that I left and then remembering that I did, and subsequently having the thought "WHY am I here?" Leaving behind the people I love so much seems stupid or unnecessary at thost times. But the more I think about it, the more I realize that I'm doing exactly what I want to be doing. It's not often that anyone get's to say that.

OH! One really funny thing DID happen. You know that cloud from Super Mario? The one that Koopa-Troopa (really?...) flew in, while it flung crap at you? Well... "Lakitu" (apparently it's name is "Lakitu") or whatever was on my flight to London. I'm not kidding. Seriously though, this woman looked EXACTLY like that cloud. And, she had fifteen men carrying HUNDREDS of Vuitton valises. I've attached a picture: