September 16

Registering with the police to obtain a residential permit became a lesson in bureaucracy and patience. The mayhem in the police station seemed to mirror the disorder of Bangalore’s traffic. In total, we spent about three to four hours at the station over two days. A week ago, we had to fill out several sheets of information, making sure everything was perfect. One tiny error meant starting over. The process was confusing and made very little sense to me. When I returned today to pick up the permit, we waited at the station for a good half an hour. Then, once I got to the counter, I gave my receipt from the day before to the Indian man and instead of handing over the permit, which is what he did for the other students, he spoke what sounded like gibberish to me. “Gadarah,” he said, or something like it. “What?” I asked. He repeated the word. “What?” I said again. This awkward and useless exchange continued a few more times, until an Afghani man I had been talking to told me this was the name of a man in the other room who I was supposed to see. So I shrugged, ventured off and asked two other men where this guy was. “Gadarah? He’s already left.” “Gone?” “Already left.” Hmm, what to do? One of the men took my receipt and together they fuddled with it. Another man approached me and eventually told me to go back into the room I originally came from and wait. As I was going back, the Afghani came in and was also told to find the mysterious G man. I went back and waited like I was told. A couple minutes later, the Afghani followed suit. All the other kids were done and asked me what was happening. “I don’t know,” I replied-partly amused at the bewildering situation and partly worried at its potential outcome. About five minutes passed and the Afghani went back up to the first counter. I followed him. I didn’t understand why he was trying again-there had been no communication between the Indians in the separate rooms. But he got his permit easily this time, and ironically I received mine moments later. None of it made sense.

But a wonderful thing happened as we waited in the station. Here, strangers quickly embraced one another under the common tag of outsider. The kind Afghani, a third year student at Bangalore University, guided me through the confusion. I met two Austrian girls who have come to India alone to volunteer with a NGO and work with children. They just recently arrived and will be here until December. We giggled and sighed over shared experiences. It didn’t matter that they were Austrian and I American; for nationalities, ethnicities, and foreign policies were forgotten in this environment, where foreigners share the same titles, obstacles, and thrill. Francisca and Kati even invited me to visit their small town outside of Vienna. We plan to get together soon. They even lent me something to help heal my poor nose (it still has not accepted the fact that it has been pierced).

There are moments in the day where I feel like the seatbelts in the rollercoaster have disappeared. And just as luck would have it, a drop is approaching and I am terrified I will fall over the edge. What is there to hold onto? Panic and fear surround me. My mind projects images of slamming face first into the ground, my insides splattering across the soil. But then I look to my side, and someone sees the stricken look of alarm spread across my face and holds me tight as we battle the descent-together. There are always seatbelts available in India: seatbelts in the form of human beings. And even though the worst seems inevitable, I will never fall off the edge. I must remember this ride will end one day and I might as well not be frightened by the danger. After all, I love amusement parks. And I have only just started the ride.

***

September 17
Grilled cheeses. “Breathless,” a film by Jean-Luc Goddard from 1960. Hand sanitizers, candles, girls with ponytails on their way to school, the sound of trains passing by, dirty feet and swollen noses, open books, closed mouths, wide eyes, fabric in every which color, memories, uncertainty, gratefulness, hope, dreams.

Thoughts here are as diverse as the stares I receive and the people who give them. As diverse as India herself. I look at the postcards I bring with me every place I go. Postcards of Matisse, Diebenkorn, of six year old drawings that are better than my own, pictures of landscapes that most Indians will never see. My world here is not just an Indian one. I think of my travels in Europe, I think of roads in Virginia that led me to harvest fairs last fall, I think of playing softball and I dream of old schools. But I think of what one expat said in the book I’m reading: “the truth is that people get used to your not being around. In a way, you have died a little bit.” My future is one of travel, of tiny deaths in the lives of the people I love back home. But I’m willing to sacrifice. Nothing can replace this type of learning. Instead of seeing exhibits at galleries in DC, I see works of art every day here. Every sight is a painting. I will not deny I miss those pieces in the States, but here, my street is a museum. The view from my balcony, the seat in a rickshaw, men in blue buses with looks of astonishment at seeing white skin, the bug bites on my body, the cows, the upper class restaurants and the trash. The pollution. The color and the smiles of children, the kindness of Indian friends.

Life beyond the back door. I could never be fenced in.