Back @ It

(From February 16)

After four days of sickness and seclusion, I was itching to re-enter the real world on Monday. I woke up excitedly, feeling too ill to scarf down the gorgeous fruits that my host mother had cut up for me but still determined to brave the bumpy rickshaw drive to the school.

Sally and I greeted each other like long-lost siblings, babbling incessantly and laughing maniacally about the seventy-two hours that had elapsed since our last goodbye. I attempted to catch up on the first half of the group project that had begun in my absence on Friday but focused more on updating my Facebook and blog after about a week without WiFi on my laptop. I caught the gist, though: my group was in the midst of researching real estate developers in relation to the massive development project taking place on the Sabarmati Riverfront, a river which cuts through the middle of Ahmedabad. We had several site visits to make and limited time (and energy) to get through them.

We stopped at a few locations, which are mostly a blur, then made our way to an art-deco café for lunch (reminded me a lot of the beautiful restaurant in Ein Hod, Haifa, Israel!) that served Italian food. I’m not exaggerating when I say that images of pasta had literally been dancing through my mind only the previous day; it can be difficult to crave Indian food when your stomach has decided that it hates you. Of course, in usual Indian fashion, when I went up to the counter and excitedly ordered a pasta dish, I was haughtily told that they had run out of pasta in addition to wraps, pizza, and side dishes. Only sandwiches and omelettes remained.

I squinted with withering disappointment and huffily ordered a sandwich, with Sally hastily reassuring that I could share her pasta, which apparently she had ordered the last of. I ended up stuffing myself with my first full meal since Wednesday, scarfing down pasta, pizza, and a caprese sandwich. I felt slightly sick afterwards but refused to admit it.

After one final presentation, Sally and I rode home on our bumpy rickshaw and collapsed into bed for a nap. About an hour or so later, we emerged to find two English-speaking women our age (!!!!) that happened to be our host mother’s nieces sitting and waiting to converse with us. It was super exciting, but in all honesty, Sally talked with them more while I turned on Discovery Channel’s Belief with Oprah Winfrey (Mondays at 9 PM!!!!!!) and sat riveted to the television.

Knowing that my stomach had been ailing me, my host mother decided to make tomato soup and macaroni and cheese in order to serve a dish mild enough for my raging indigestion. It was such a kind (and delicious) gesture and made me feel way more comfortable.

Today (Tuesday) was our first day back in the classroom since Wednesday. Sally and I had begun to get suspicious of our regular rickshaw driver, who takes us to class every single morning for 120 rupees (or about $2). We’d been able to cajole drivers into returning us home for only about 100 rupees, so we decided to put our driver’s meter to the test in order to detect whether or not we’d been ripped off over the past few weeks. Our driver, a little bit shocked and slightly offended, haltingly agreed to turn on his meter.

Lo and behold—our trip to the school should only have cost 93 rupees a day! We had been swindled!!!!!!!! While I demanded that our driver give us two free rides in order to pay us back, Sally took a slightly less radical stance and simply told him we’d only be paying the correct price from now on. We both stalked away from the cheating driver without a backwards glance.

(These are the times when I really really wish I could use gifs—so many possibilities!!!!! Hopefully Brazil does me better with technology…)

Class today was interesting and flew pretty quickly. We ate one of my favorite dishes today (first Indian food in a week!!!) and walked to get some ice cream (#1 of the day). Our groups then met up to finalize our presentations that make up 30% of our final grade for one of our four classes.

In high school in group projects, I would often take complete control, promising my fellow members that we’d get an A if they’d allow me to do all of the work without interference. The deal was usually accepted without hesitation. I realized in college, though, that I was surrounded by people like me; Harvardians are not usually keen on handing the wheel to a fellow student. Funnily enough, my group this time around had all three Harvardians in it, and the other two, as well as a fellow group member, were jostling for control. I decided to relinquish any semblance of my Type A personality and simply go along for the ride, only copying drawn diagrams into Microsoft Word using lines and text boxes. I felt quite relaxed.

After finishing up our preliminary drafts, we departed, I taking four books from a mini library I’d found in our working space. Sally and I hurried home so that Saba, our host mom’s daughter, could give us a tour of the neighborhood mosque for an observation exercise we had to complete. But first… Ice cream #2 of the day since the first place I’d gone didn’t have the exact bar that I loved.

The mosque was extremely interesting, and I enjoyed comparing my experiences and observations with those I’d had in Turkey at the numerous mosques I’d visited. This one was much more outdoors-oriented because of the warm and hot weather year-around. It also had much more Hindi influence in its architecture and its customs, which I found fascinating. It made me curious to see Christian churches in the area (a religion with which I’m more familiar and on which I’m more educated) to see how they differ from churches back home.

We returned to the home and were visited by two more people, one of whom also spoke English (!!!! In Sally’s words, it’s become a sitcom here! “There’s a knock at the door, and you’re just looking to see who comes in next.”) We’ve been so starved for interaction that we react in quite different ways to the commotion. Sally gladly interacts, firing off questions and engaging in conversation. I usually just sit back in relative silence, letting the intelligible noise flow over me and relishing the delight of company. I get kind of shy with strangers at first and would rather listen to conversation as opposed to instigating it. Nevertheless, I really enjoy the visitors…. While eating ice cream #3.

Our host mom made one of her delicacies tonight of which we’d heard raving compliments but had never tried: CHINESE food!!! Indian Chinese food, what a thought. I think we were a little apprehensive, but our first taste of her Manchurian chicken assuaged any worry we’d had—it was absolutely phenomenal. We gobbled it up, and my stomach only murmured slightly in protest. I shushed it completely with one mini Three Musketeers provided by my host mom.

It’s been a tumultuous week—honestly, a completely hectic month. I’ve been thrown into this insane situation with twenty-nine strangers, and we are simply all making it up as we go along. Being in India has really shaken my sense of identity, though, which has been disconcerting to the point of tears. I’ll try to explain.

I define myself in so many ways, both consciously and subconsciously. I label myself through habit, background, likes, dislikes, and many other things. Everybody does. But being in India has forced me to peel back all of these layers, significant and insignificant, and I’ve been forced to re-examine who I am.

On a light note, for example: I used to think I was someone who used toilets. Yeah, in the occasional moment camping in the woods, I would hide behind a tree, but like 99% of the time, I sat my butt down on a toilet seat and did my business.

No longer the case. I’ve used Indian toilets—aka a hole in the ground—almost every day we’ve been here. Sometimes, even when there’s a choice between an Indian toilet and a “Western” toilet, I choose the former due to the cleanliness.

Another thing—I always thought of myself as a lover of any and all dogs, always. And like I still am… but even I cringe a little when I see one of the mangy mutts here digging through cow poop in the street, and the wince is not always sympathetic. Sometimes it’s in disgust. However, love for canines was one quality that I decided I was determined to retain, which partly helps explain my reckless behavior from Saturday in feeding and coaxing random strays that may or may not have had rabies.

Finally, I’ve always thought of myself as joyful, and prided myself on that fact. I like to say that I carry a little inner flame of joy and gratefulness and appreciation and humility in my belly and feed it constantly with the positivity I find both in the environment around me and within myself. But so many times here, I’ve been reduced to a puddle of tears for no good reason. I complain about things out of and within my control, and I embrace negativity far too often. Am I still joyful? Am I still happy? I don’t know.

I’ve really been struggling with this lack of definition. How can I travel the world and appreciate new things and form opinions and maintain beliefs if I can’t even keep my definition of “self” constant? It feels hopeless. So, a few nights ago, I started listing things that I know for a fact about myself. Like, I love to read. I’ve been reading voraciously since I’ve been gone, and I devour a book every few days. Or, I am obsessed with California, New Orleans, and Washington, D.C. Even things as simple as the fact that I love sleeping with an eye mask, because otherwise the sunlight wakes me up in the morning. Minuscule realities that tether me to the earth, that keep me sane, that remind me that I am still and always will be me, even if that me seems up in the air, or far away, or indefinite. There are still parts of me that I can count on and that I can look for when I’m lost, like flickering candles in the dark murkiness of uncertainty.

Talking to my friends back at school has helped a lot, too, but sometimes I can’t help but fear that they’ve only remained attached to that old Aubrey—the dog-loving (I still am!!!), toilet-using (not so much) joyful human being. I can’t decide yet whether I hope that’s the same Aubrey that returns to the United States in two and a half months. I am scared but hopeful that it won’t be. I think (I truly, truly hope) that I’ll only improve over my journey.

I think I’m getting slightly philosophical, though, and it’s late considering that I’ve got to get to school early for prime Instagramming time—err, I mean, to finish my presentation.

So, toodles for now, from the dog-loving, book-reading Californian who is about to put on her sleeping mask,

The Always Improving Aubrey