In The Company Of Primates

My laptop screen had turned on me. The soft inviting light that had dutifully supplied endless hours of information and entertainment was now methodically burning through my eyes and leaving behind a sharp pain deep within my temples. Pushing away from the desk with a brisk shove of divorce, I rolled towards the middle of the office and came to a rest near the balcony door. I stood up and walked outside.

It was a still afternoon in Ahmedabad and the sandy backstreet of Sarvajal headquarters was nearly silent aside from the inescapable shuffling of life and happenings that permeated every niche of the city. Three children screamed excitedly amid the swings of a cricket bat and falling of a wicket; the raspy note of a scooter came and went; a fruit cart dealer down the road echoed his sales pitch to the neighborhood. I grasped the thick black railing with both hands and felt the pin-point spots of rust against the soft underbelly of my hand. Leaning forward and pushing my shoulder-blades together, I took a close-eyed inhale and pause before re-opening my eyes and seeing I was not alone.

A family of monkeys sat in a nearby tree quietly but in plain site, staring at me for a brief moment with eerie half-human scrutiny before continuing their snack of thin leaves and small white flowers. I froze and was obviously more concerned with their presence than they were with mine. The mother and father crouched calmly and observed the surroundings as their child crawled, climbed and explored without relent through the cross-hatch of thin tree branches. Their limbs were long and lanky, covered in grayish hair and ending with blackened hands and feet. Not standing more than two or three feet high, their heads were on a slow but constant swivel of scrutiny, their small black eyes nestled in the shallow circle of black hair that was their face.

Oddly similar to the monkeys I had seen in the Ahmedabad Zoo not one month ago, I observed them with curious caution for some time until noticing their friends...and their friend’s friends. On ledges, in other trees and on the stairs below they all sat and crawled and climbed - I was surrounded. About twelve monkeys in all, I suddenly felt gravely outnumbers and bizarrely out of place. At what seemed like calculated intervals, they would take turns looking at me between bites of leaf and acrobatic vaults of strength and agility. My grip had tightened on the railing and I could now feel the spots of rust beginning to push small uncomfortable indentations into my palms. They were small creatures, barely over 30 pounds with delicate limbs and wispy white hair, but I could see the unpredictability in their eyes and they could see the caution in mine.

But without reason or communication, the twelve monkeys turned into 10, and 10 into 6 until they were gone. Crawling into the bushes and trees they disappeared without show or display, leaving my balcony and its surroundings as silent as they found it. Comfort and ease slowly crept back into my stomach, and I could hear the sharp smack of another wicket. Scrapping my sandal along the clean concrete of the balcony, I pivoted around and made my way back into the office and towards the soft light and predictability of my computer screen.

A different kind of life.

I haven’t written in quite a while now, and I reluctantly believe it is from a lack of inspiration rather than a lack of time. Though the latter is an undeniable issue, it's no pardon for a 6-week pause by any stretch of the imagination.

Why? My new life here in Ahmedabad does not consist of the raw ingredients that make up peculiar stories and vivid memories. I am no longer pulled to my matte-black keyboard by a desire to relive and document through the process of writing, but rather feel a grinding subconscious push rooted in guilt and duty - exactly what drove me here today.

But don’t get me wrong, life in Ahmedabad has come with undeniable upgrades. My office no longer suffers from chronic power outages and the lurk of curious lizards. The unbearable heat that slowed my every step, movement and task has been exchanged for the bearable burden of humidity. And my crippling inability to communicate with the strangers around me has been replaced with the gift of broken, yet constructive conversations.

It is for these very reasons though, that my inspiration has escaped me. It’s hard to write a curious story about overindulgent dinners served by complacent waiters in cold rooms of conditioned air. I see no reason to document my latest trip to the mall and local superstore. And though my daily rides in auto rickshaws act as motivation to write a Will, they are no substitute for tandem bicycle rides down heat-waved highways or bus-top gallivanting across rural plains.

While I am writing this though, going through the fickle rolodex of my Ahmedabad memories, I can see the very basis of my apprehension being invalidated. For every luke-warm memory, there is a rich one right next to it that I would be remorseful to lose. I haven’t written about my impromptu ride atop an elephant during a mid-morning tea break at work, the streetlamp-lit basketball game in monsoon rains, or covert trips to the local bootlegger.

I better get writing.

Mirror

About a week ago I saw myself for the first time in over 6-weeks.

I was on a marketing visit in the small desert town of Barbud with my loyal work companion and village chaperone, Deepak. We had walked into an unassuming barber shop for a few minutes to escape the anvil-like sun, and enjoy some freshly pressed sugar cane juice we had purchased from a nearby street vendor. The small parlor was empty, and we took a collective exhale as we stepped in and removed our gumchas, dragging our sandals with fatigued relief across the tiled floor. To our left the entire wall was mirrored, giving the reflection of counter tops littered with silent scissors, three tattered barber chairs, and two exhausted men.

I sat down on the cracked vinyl bench, elbows on knees, and quietly looked at myself. Unlike the port-holed images of hand-held shaving mirrors and blurry reflections I had seen in the milky windows of nighttime buses, I could now observe myself in candid clarity for the first time in almost two months - I had changed.

Though same in shape and proportion, my face was now worn with uneven hues of pink from the constant onslaught of salty sweat and desert dust. My eyes looked sunken and worn, tunneling out of my face with a fraction of the energy, optimism and aggressiveness to which I had grown accustomed over the years. And behind me was the backdrop of my new life in a foreign land - the walls were plastered with the angelic faces of fair-skinned models, and dotted with smooth cartoon images of Ganesh.

So I sat there sipping the murky waters of my sugar cane juice, shamelessly gawking at the foreign figure in the mirror. He was totally unfamiliar to me, and all I wanted to do was stare. I was now starting to see why everyone else did.

General Class

Tightening the endless straps and plastic buckles of my colossal backpack, I looked up at the blue-grey clouds of the evening sky with a fast heart and focused eyes as I stood alone and waited on the platform of the Jaipur train station. The ominous words of GDL’s hardcore Fellows, veterans of India for nearly a year, rang through my head.

“I always wanted to take General Class, but never had the balls to...”
“It’s like a cattle cart...”
”No, you really don’t want to take General Class...”

At the time they were all just interesting anecdotes about India’s rough underbelly told weeks ago over hot chai after a nighttime monsoon. But now that I had a General Class boarding pass in my pocket, and minutes to spare before the train arrived, these same words were eroding my trustworthy conviction layer by layer.

It wasn’t meant to be like this though, my current situation was far from planned. I intended on taking the train with a large group. We had planned to not take the cushier 1st, 2nd or 3rd Class cars, but rather gut it out the non-A/C Sleeper Class to Ahmedabad - a short 11 hour ride. This was, as I had been told, the “real India experience.”

However, after arriving at 2:06 PM to a ticket office that had closed at 2:00 PM, my options were concretely limited. With the entire train booked, my only chance of getting to Ahmedabad was to buy a ticket for the only class that didn’t need reservations - General Class. Accessible to the poorest of the poor train travelers for about $3, General Class was little more than wooden benches, metal-barred windows, and a few rusted fans for its passengers. Because there were no reserved seats nor limit to how many tickets could be sold, the option of sitting and not standing in General Class was a luxury and not a right. I had encountered the same practice countless times on brief New York subways and Boston buses, but transplanting this reality onto an 11-hour train ride across India seemed to color far outside the lines of logic with bright and bold crayons.

I heard the train approaching, and could now see the unblinking white orb on its nose.

The gentleman on my left and the two on my right stared at me for brief moments of interest, wondering why someone like my self was waiting to get onto the General Class car. I simply stared back at them and took a deep breath with pursed lips, conceding the absurdity of my situation. Behind me was a rusted cart on shaky wooden wagon wheels selling samosas, and I cold smell the thick masala. The train had now reached me, and I saw all the other classes slide by in a taunting blur - First Class...Second Class...Third Class....”

I was in my starting blocks and the pistol had been raised. The shuttle countdown had already reached a decisive “two.” The drum roll was reaching a thunderous bedlam.

The train stopped with a decisive howl and I did what my friends had advised me to do, all the I could do - push. In an instant, I was mashed together with all the strangers around me as we nudged and prodded against each other in a solid mass of panic and body odor. People edged in and out of the narrow train door all at the same time, sliding by each other with angled shoulders and furrowed brows. I, with my cumbersome backpack wasn’t so lucky, and had to resort to brut force as I shoved through the the door with unapologetic resolve.

Inside the train was no better as I was greeted with an abundance of stares and not a single vacant seat. Hands selling water and sweets shoved their way through the barred windows and into the compartment- “Pani! Pani!” - bare feet stuck out from second-level benches and into my face, the rusted fans attached to the ceiling blew warm air onto my neck. Standing about a foot taller than all the eyeballs fixed upon me, I felt like a chopstick standing among spoons and grabbed onto the ceiling rail as the train smoothly crept forward towards Ahmedabad.

After about 45 minutes, a nice muslim man ordered his friends to all move aside, allotting me a hospitable 7 inches of seat which I gratefully accepted with the slight nod of my head. I sat upright on the bench with my backpack between my legs and began to doze off as I came to terms with my situation.

I found myself surprisingly comfortable and looking forward to the down time when my phone rang from within my breast pocket. The whole train looked over as I fumbled with the zipper and pulled it out - it was my friend Tushar in the Sleeper Class compartment.

“Dude, we found a seat for you, get over here now.”

The conversation was curt but perfect, and when I felt the train stop a few minutes later I leapt into action and began pushing once again towards the door. I could see out the window that we had not stopped at a station, but rather in an empty field in the middle of nowhere. Seeing the opportunity though, I slid the door open and jumped out of the train. The drop was far and the impact was hard, but I quickly got my footing and ran alongside the train as my feet clawed for grip on the loose gravel ground beside the tracks. For a brief but resounding moment I realized the train could very easily just leave without me, but I quickly put the thought out of my head and continued running until I came to the door of the Sleeper Class and pulled myself aboard.

The sleeper car was dark and quiet, but when I saw my friend’s faces it felt like a ticker tape parade. The train was humid and my blue vinyl sleeper bench was sticky against my skin, but it was the best seven hours of sleep I will perhaps ever get.

Bus-Top Riding

The day had completely gotten the better of me, and I could feel it with every emptying exhale. Though over the past month I was quite proud of how I had taken in stride the gauntlet that is India, sometimes it all just got to me - the heat, the cows, the stares - and this was one of those days. Deepak and I had spent the day in the village of Barbad with a Sarvajal franchisee, and our bus was finally pulling up. Despite its crooked suspension, rusted sores and fractured windshield, it was the most beautiful bus I had seen in years. The day was finally over.

“Go to top?” Deepak managed to say with choppy English and a rising hand gesture.

“Yeah!” I immediately burst out, walking to the rear of the bus with fervent eyes and an awakened bounce in my step. I had always wanted to ride on top of the bus, and the idea of escaping the inevitable stares of the riders inside was welcome.

With my backpack on both shoulders and gumcha wrapped around my head, I made my way up the warm ladder and onto the shallow metal tray atop the crudely painted beast. After only one step forward it leapt to life with the pop of a clutch, causing my arms to shoot out to my sides for balance and my eyes to open wide with the precarious reality of the situation. As the bus climbed to 20, 30, 40 kilometers an hour, Deepak and I quickly made our way to the front and immediately sat down.

The metal roof was hot, hotter than I imagined, and the scalding rail on my right was hard to grasp for more than a few seconds at a time. I could feel the bus continue its romp through the gears - 40, 50, 60 kilometers an hour - and the wind grew exponentially as it washed against my front teeth that were now exposed in a full childlike grin.

Driving past rusted telephone poles, wild brown-green trees and tilled fields, the sky looked bluer as I inhaled gallons of fresh air through my nose. The wind flicked my gumcha onto my shoulders and ran through my hair and down my back replacing warm sweat with a cool blanket. Even though Deepak was sitting a few feet behind me, I felt like the only one atop that bus, or anywhere for that matter. It was just me enjoying something I would have never experienced otherwise.

The wind had washed away the heat, and the cows and the stares, replacing it all with the sense that India was a wonderfully raw place like no other.

Mountain Palaces and the Cordial Repo (Part 2)

The plan was to leave at 8:00 AM, so by IST standards (Indian Standard Time) we were perfectly punctual as we drove away only an hour late at 9:05. The Mahindra Jeep was our choice of transportation, and it fit the mood perfectly as we were 9 men ready to go into war. I couldn’t tell if it was the Jeep’s anachronistic suspension on the pitted roads of rural India, or merely the sheer energy coursing under our skin, but everyone bounced up and down, mile after mile, with wide eyes and fiery smiles. Using my broken Hindi and their broken English we joked back and forth about the impending melee, yelling over the hot wind and flexing our muscles from underneath thin cotton shirtsleeves. I hadn’t felt like this since Middle School.

DV though, was uncharacteristically quiet. He just sat in the front seat next to the driver, looking at the horizon, and not bouncing at all. It was a this point that I realized our seraphic leader was a lover, not a fighter.

After about an hour and a half we pulled off the rough road onto a rougher road that eventually led up to the franchisee’s house where he was keeping the machine. It was go time. DV got out of the car first and quickly signaled us to stay in the front yard with the simple extension of his hand. We obediently held our ground, and stood with crossed arms near a tree to which a blackened water-buffalo was chained and resting. As our brave teddy bear general walked up to the house and disappeared around the tall front gate, we were ready for anything - yelling, the sound of shattered glass, gun fire. Instead, five children walked out of the house carrying chairs, biscuits and cold lemonade for all of us. With perplexed reservation pasted across my face I took their gifts, but shot a crumpled look at Tushar to which he simply remarked:

“Indian hospitality. Gotta love it.”

So at that I sat in the beaten-wood chair, crossed my legs, and slowly ate biscuits and drank lemonade. And this is what it was like - for three and a half hours. We had prepared ourselves for battle, but were left only to fight the breezy heat of a Sunday afternoon.



And in the end, absent of commotion or theatrics, DV simply walked out and directed us back into the Jeep. Apparently after a long discussion, DV and the franchisee concluded the legality of the business contract would have to be further reviewed, after which they would speak again. The war was over, a shaky peace treaty was signed, and the soldiers were sent back to the barracks. I was totally baffled at the sequence of events, but felt myself dismiss it within moments - I was getting used to India.

Before heading back to GDL, the group decided to take a detour. There was a fort in the nearby mountains called Khitri that everyone wanted to see - I could do nothing but accept with blindsided anticipation.

45 minutes later we found ourselves at the base of the mountain, and promptly hired a second Jeep bold enough to take us up the 4 kilometer spaghetti-like road. Passing veiled women and the occasional goat, we made our way up the precarious incline and directly through the 500 year old metal-cloaked wooden gate of Khetri Fort. Built entirely around the perimeter of a cupped-crated in the mountain’s peak, the fort consisted of two castles and a marble temple, all connected by miles of fortress wall that were peppered with head-sized portals supplying blue-green views of sky and landscape to those who walked atop it.



With a hollowed clunk, I slammed the door of the white Jeep and immediately felt the absence - the absence of car horns, the lack of goat chatter, and the void of market-place yelling. They had all taken a sabbatical, and the group took full advantage of it as we leapt up hills of stone and mud into one of the castles. Though totally vacant, each of the countless rooms was mauled by ash-scribbled Devanagari graffiti and 500 years of wear and tear. Some of the rooms felt like arenas with jeweled ceilings and rocketing columns, while others were no larger than a walk-in closet with charred ceilings and rubbled walls. Our echoes of pioneering triumph bounced from room to room briefly filling them with adolescent-like energy, only to leave them empty again as we swiftly proceeded on.



After some time with the group, I decided to section off and explore by myself. Trekking through a maze of steps, rooms and low corridors, I came to a relatively unremarkable hallway with a relatively remarkable light at the end. After 15 short paces down the gravel and dust passageway, I was rewarded with a view that trumped anything I had seen in nearly 30 years. The view of what seemed a thousand miles halted my march, and totally overwhelmed all five of my senses. Green hills and white clouds were complimented by disarming wind and a blunt sense of awe. There were no coin operated telescopes, no commemorative plaques, no rails, no one - just the sound of my heavy sandals as I roaming the expansive terrace. Though I felt like a general, an emperor, a god gazing onto the land, I knew it was a land of which I had total ignorance and quite frankly still scared me.



Seeing that time had passed and the sun had begun its walk downstairs, I made my way to the white marble temple where the others had gone. It was a rule at the front gate that after removing your sandals, you washed your hands and feet in a communal fountain, eliminating the tarnish of the outside world. I obliged, and with damp feet and dripping hands I walked past a room of low-chanting Hari Krishna and into a larger open room where a group of thirty to forty people were congregating. Some sitting some standing, they had gathered around a single standing man wearing white cotton from head toe, his face wrapped so as only to reveal only the round oval of his worn but clean shaven face. DV was standing there patiently but with anticipation on his face, as the others in our group sat and watched. I sat next to Kamal.

“What is this Kamal?” I asked in hushed words of respect as I sat down.
“People ask that man questions. He knows the future” Kamal said with his thick Nepalese accent.

As DV was got closer and closer to the soothsayer, the chant of the Hari Krishna continued without stutter or misstep. It was odd seeing yet another side of DV that day - he was serious but content as he waited with a patience that I had never seen in him before. After about 20 minutes it was his turn, and he spoke softly to the covered man, leaning in with a slight crook of his rounded waist. DV’s gaze fixed softly on the figure as he laid out his soul and asked a question of great importance - I could see it in his eyes.

And just like that, it was done. DV walked away followed by the rest of us, like a mother goose and her goslings. Ambling down the decline towards our rusty white Jeep no one talked, and the crunching of old dirt was all that I could hear. I didn’t know if it was taboo, or just plain rude, but I had to inquire.

“What did you ask him DV?” I asked directly. He stopped, paused, and looked up at the sky for a brief moment.

“Vvvell - I asked heeem vhen we would get our machine back.”

I smiled and look at the ground.

“He said one month!” DV exclaimed with a proud, wet lisp before bursting into sandy laughter

The group laughed, and I laughed with them, perhaps louder than anyone else.

Mountain Palaces and the Cordial Repo (Part 1)

Once again, I had over eaten. In a lawless ten-fingered blur of roti, yogurt and paneer masala I had thrown caution to the wind for over an hour at my favorite local restaurant, Ridi Sidi. The sound of spoon scrapes along the bottom of silver serving dishes had finally died down, but thoughts of a potbellied homecoming in December were just starting to brew. Alim, Karthik, Ashini and I quickly paid our shares of the bill - 120 rupees each, about $2.60 - and took one final gulp of cold water before walking out the door into the humid night.

After a short 15 minute walk down the main road, through headlights and horn honks, we turned down the sand-doused concrete side road that eventually led to our GDL entrance. At the front door and under a single streetlight I saw Dharamveer standing there enjoying a large piece of papad, and looking at me with his usual cherubic grin. I stopped for a moment while the rest of the group made their way through the front door.

“Hellooooo. Goood even-en-ing” he playfully said in his sandpapered soprano voice full of its usual inflection and vigor. His English was actually quite good, but everything he said was infused with a slight lisp, and his own brand of accent.

Dharamveer, who we referred to simply as “DV”, was one of those people in life that when you asked someone if they knew him, they would acknowledge with a knowing smile, slow blink and pursed lips - he was a character. Of average height and a portly build, you could often find DV sauntering around our GDL complex with a satisfied smile on his often perspiring face, and if you asked him a 10 second question, you would often get a 10 minute parable in return. He worked with me on the Sarvajal pure-water business, and often had to deal with the late payments, fraud, and general shaky business practices of our franchisee network - a necessary evil of doing business in rural India.

“So - vaat are yoo doing tomorrow?” he asked, holding out a generous chunk of papad. I took it and had a small bite

“As of now, nothing DV. Why?” I already had a smirk on my face though, firstly - because I knew he had something up his sleeve, and secondly - just because I was talking to DV.

“Vvvell - I am going to Jhunjhunu City toom-ardow to take ourd filter machine back from an angry franchisee, and I need your help” His grin turned to a toothy smile as he punctuated “help” with a few decisive pats on his left bicep. I smiled back and looked at the ground in a brief moment of modesty. As I was about 8 inches taller and 60 pounds heavier than nearly everyone in the village, I was the default “muscle” of the group. In the past three weeks I had been called an “army man”, a “movie hero”, and been told with sincere adulation but unintended homosexual undertones that “I want to have a body like yours, sir.” The comments were flattering, but I had never become totally comfortable with them.

Regardless, though being a bona-fide “Repo Man” for the company wasn’t in the job description I received last May, there was no way I was going to let this one pass me by.

“Sure DV, I’m in. But is it going to be just you and me?” Thoughts of a Ben/DV repo team seemed to lack the sense of intimidation and security that I thought we needed.

“No no no. I am having eeeight guys from Sarvajal come” he said

“Ah, got it” I affirmed.

“But - I tooold them vee were going on a pik-nik so that they vould actually come.” He put his hand on my shoulder with a raspy belly-laugh that, in turn, made me break into a laugh and slight head-shake. I didn’t know which was odder, the foolishness of the whole thing, or that I was becoming increasingly used to such absurdity with each passing week in India. Regardless, I patted DV on the shoulder and retired to my bedroom for some good rest before the next day’s repo work.

[It’s late. Going to bed. To be continued....]

Music

One thing that has totally taken me by surprise in India, is that I can no longer listen to my music. The tried-and-true favorites that I have grown to love over the past few years have abruptly lost their luster. They now fail to spark any kind of emotion or vigor, but rather feel awkward and cumbersome - like wearing your favorite pair of shoes on the wrong feet.

My first reaction was caveman-like befuddlement absent of any surmise, but I now realize the err of my ways. While requesting my usual favorites with a thumb’s blur of clockwise and counter-clockwise movements across my iPod, I had been trying to listen to music from another life. Indelibly printed on each song are the memories of calm spring days, cool winter nights, and familiar faces - these have no place here. I can’t superimpose them onto my life in India, it is just too different.

The solution? Ironically, I have discovered the albums on my iPod that I never really got around to, the “B-Team” of my music collection, are swiftly filling the void. They have proved to be the blank canvases that I so need, ready to absorb the rich, thick paint of my experiences here in India. The question is, will I be able to listen to them when I come home? I hope so.

The Bagar Rock Climb

After a group night out in Bagar that was divided up by monsoon rain and dinner, four of us had broken off to walk back to GDL and call it an early night. Tushar, Sasha, Yuki and myself made our way down the mangled, sand-covered inner roads of Bagar, walking in and out of lamppost-lit pockets of visibility.

“Hey, you guys want to go climb Bagar Rock?” Tushar asked the three of us. The resounding answer was “Yes”, as the rainfall had stopped hours ago, and it was now a clear and breezy night.

Shooting a quick left up a side street, we made our way to what had always been referred to as "Bagar Rock". About 100 feet tall, it was a small but veritable mountain that overlooked Bagar and the surrounding desert. I had seen it from a distance, but never attempted the climb.

Wearing thin-soled sandals and gripping flashlights, we climbed our way to the top. A group of goats that we left behind at the bottom soon grew quieter, and the breeze grew quicker with each push upwards. Claw, pull, push, repeat...until there was nothing - just breeze.

I don’t know what I was expecting, but I wasn’t expecting this. I could see all of Bagar living its life in total peace under small umbrellas of white electric light and the evening stars. In the distance there was the booming sound and bright lights of a ceremony in one of the local temples, and past that was the black void of the Indian desert. For 15 minutes, the four of us just stood up there in total silence. The sun was not abusive, the car horns had stopped, and the peace was unavoidable. I think I like India more at night.

The Language Lesson, And My Struggle With India

The afternoon was cloudy, and I almost didn’t recognize the sky in the absence of the thick sun. It wasn’t quite on the verge of raining yet, but we all hoped that storms would come along and bring the cool air that usually rides shotgun.

“You want to come to one of my English lessons?” Asked Tushar, a thin but sure-footed Fellow in the program. “I’m teaching two girls English in a nearby village, it might be good for your Hindi.” I was still shell-shocked from everything that had hit me in the past few days, and paused for a brief moment of general reservation before coming to my senses.

“Of course. Lets go.” I said before spinning around and walking to my room for a pen, paper, and a bottle of water for our journey.

We met at the front door of our hostel where I found Tushar holding a red bike in his hands. Upon closer inspection, the bike was in a distinct state of disrepair by American standards, but “bullet proof” by local benchmarks. Now, he didn’t have to say anything because from what I had seen in the village, and from the smirky look on his face, I knew right away that this was going to be a bike ride for two. After some talking back and forth, and Tushar’s unavoidably valid point that I outweighed him by 60 pounds, I hopped on the driver's seat and said “just don’t hold on to my waist dude” before churning away as my copilot sat comfortably on the back. Like a wobbly new born calf taking its first steps, I awkwardly peddled and struggled for control with the extra weight on board, but soon got the hang of it. I also couldn’t help but smile at the irony that the last time I was on a bike was my spin class two weeks ago. Flanked by soccer Moms and portly business men, it was a stark contrast to the honking motorbikes, grumpy camels and tattered buses that accompanied me this time. Regardless, the two of us continued our journey down the main road out of Bagar, and quickly dissolved into the distance.

The nearby village wasn’t much more than a mile or so way, and we arrived soon with Mangos in hand that Tushar had picked up on the way. “Wait here” he said, as he opened the family’s gate and walked in. We had discussed earlier that he would have to speak with the two girls and their mother before having me walk in. Apparently bringing a huge white guy to English lessons in a tiny Indian village wasn’t a usual custom. But after a brief conversation, I was waved in and met Anju and Sushila, my two new classmates.

After greeting their mother with a respectful “Namaste”, the four of us made our way into their hut. Sushila was 14, and her sister Anju was 18 and preparing for nursing school. The four of us sat on the large and sturdy bed that took up about 50% of the brick hut’s dirt floor. The two were quite reticent in my presence, and often displayed shy smiles when we made intermittent eye contact during the lesson, but we made progress nonetheless. Towards the end of the lesson, Anju, Sushila and I - granted, with strong help from Tushar - were able to ask and answer questions to each other using both English and Hindi. We stumbled over tenses and tripped over verbs, but were able to communicate, all while their mother knelt at the foot of the bed and rubbed fresh mud on the floor, effectively resurfacing it.

After about an hour we left, and Tushar gave the two girls and their three siblings Mangos as a treat. The two of us soon hopped back onto the bike and began our return journey as the clouds finally started to drizzle. “Wow, that was really cool man” I said as the drops grew larger. I couldn’t see Tushar’s face behind me, but I would bet that he was smiling too.

This was all not a few days ago, but I found out this morning that Anju died. Apparently something went wrong with her health, but no one really knows what happened, and no one ever will. She was cremated a few hours later in an emotional but raw ceremony that I attended this afternoon. I’m still struggling with some parts of India.

The Simple Life

I’ve always found simplicity in one’s lifestyle to be a virtue. Simplicity in personal habits, simplicity in possessions, and even simplicity in room adornment and decoration. I’ve always thought that people have way too much “stuff” in their lives, and that this “stuff” can be both the direct and indirect cause of stress, confusion, and general anxiety. Therefore, I’ve always tried to live in a simple fashion, and honestly believed that I did - until now. The life that we live here in India takes “simple” to a whole other level. Our lifestyle in this old hostel is the epitome of frugality, and was designed around the teachings of Ghandi. I could go through each and every example of this, but would rather walk through one of my usual mornings here:

At 7:00 am the diminutive yet piercing ring of my travel alarm clock echos off the concrete floors and pockmarked walls of my room to remind me of our daily 7:20 am group meeting - I promptly hit the snooze button. The only thing harder than going to sleep in heat, is waking up from it, and I have no intention of rising until absolutely necessary. So after the usual 15 minute cat-and-mouse game I play with my snooze button I wake up, put on my sandals, and walk out to the courtyard (pictured above) directly outside of the room. Various awakened bodies from our 12-person group shuffle to the courtyard as well, and some of us grab rolled-up outdoor rugs and lay them down to soften the sun washed concrete as we all sit down in a rough circle. We’re a hodge-podge group of world citizens ranging from Americans, to Japanese, Turkish, English and Belgium.

Tushar, our fearless leader, begins the meeting by saying “Good morning everyone,” in his usual calm but direct nature. There’s often a 15 second pause until various members of the group update us on the happenings of their social projects and life in general. These projects range from women’s workshops, computer classes for the local villagers, and my Sarvajal pure-water company. I’m still the new kid on the on the block and learning, so often don’t have much to add, but still enjoy these meetings and contribute as much as I can. After about 30 minutes everyone has said their piece, and we all stand up to begin the daily “Safai”.

Safai is the Hindi word for “cleaning”, and that is exactly what we do - clean. On a tattered computer printout hanging from the courtyard clothesline is the Safai list that notes which cleaning job each of us have on that particular day of the week. Some of us will sweep the courtyard with brooms consisting of little more than thin rigid sticks bound together, some of us will have to clean the small concrete-enclosed squat-style bathroom, some of us will clean the showers, and some of us may just need to clean the two bathroom sinks that stand proudly against the courtyard wall. One of the sinks is the “deluxe” edition, distinguished by the small mirror in front of it that hangs by some red threat tied to a nail in the wall.

After a quick 15 to 20 minutes, Safai is usually done and I snatch my green towel from the clotheslines, check it for bird droppings, and head off to the shower. Now, I’m using the term “shower” quite loosely here. Its door is blue, thoroughly rusted, and grunts open to reveal a small concrete closet, a bucket, and an ankle-hight spigot. It can get quite hot in there at times, but you are reminded of the true emotional and physical cleansing powers of a shower once the first hand-held waterfall pours over your face and back. Immediately, you feel rejuvenated as 24 hours of sweat and desert sand fall to your feet, making you feel like a human being again. The soap and shampoo help to do the detail work, but there is simply no substitute for the feeling of bucket after bucket of cool water washing over your skin. Towel around my waist and dirty clothes in hand, I saunter back across the courtyard and back to my room to get dressed for breakfast.

Now it’s about 8:30 am, and the whole team begins to make their way to the kitchen to see what our master cook Kamal has made for us. Ranging from Indian-style oatmeal to dough-based pancakes, we always eat well and scoop up as much as we can. Meals are always informal around here, and people sit scattered around the courtyard in either loose groups, or individually if the mood hits them. Out of metal dishes and bowls, we sit, eat, and read a few pages of the news paper in the process.

Slowly but surely after breakfast, people begin to leave for the village to do work while a handful may decide to do work from the hostel. At this point in the program I am still in the midst of getting up to speed with the business (Sarvajal) and spend my days reading through documents and speaking with members of the team, but still try and get into town at least once a day to meet team member that are in the community, run errands, or simply walk around. Though the pace of my day will eventually pick-up when work does, my mornings will always be simple, just the way I like it.

I'm a Freshman again. Where's the dining hall?

I’m starting to realize the painful pattern in life of Rise-and-Reset. This can most easily be pointed out when it happens in high school, at which point one begins as a lowly Freshmen and spends four long years clawing their way to the top of the food chain, only to be knocked down to Freshman status all over again in college. Soaring confidence and a sure-footed strut are swiftly replaced with all too familiar insecurities, and fresh ignorance. Rise-and-Reset.

Now, this has happened to me a few times - Grade School, Middle School, High School, College, my Agency in Michigan and my Agency in Boston to name a few...but who’s counting. What I’m getting at though, is that the reset button just got hit hard, harder than ever, and I didn’t even see it coming.

Now that I’m in India, nearly everything needs to be relearned. I’ve had the supple carpet of confidence snatched from under my feet once again, and am now stuck with more cluelessness than I know what to do with. Not only do I not know where anything is, or who anyone is, I now can’t understand what people are saying, can’t read any signs, and a few days ago I had to ask my Mentor how to wash my clothes and go to the bathroom. Please read that last part again - I had to ask someone “how” to go to the bathroom here, not “where”; I’ll just say that things are done differently around here and leave it at that.

But now that I’ve gotten that off my chest, let me get to the parts that actually do matter, and I mean that in all sincerity. The people in my organization (Grassroots Development Laboratory) are all interesting, honest and good people; I’m seeing the world for all of its scars and jewels; and I’m doing something in which I have immense pride. Those are the things that great experiences are made of.

Stories about my actual happenings are coming soon. Just wanted to get that off my chest though. Stay tuned...

We’re not in Kansas anymore.

After nearly two months of prepping, talking and imagining, I am finally here. Coming in fast on the British Airways 777, I could see a subtle haze of heat over the entire landscape that seemed randomly splotched with desert sand, brittle greenery and squatty concrete buildings. The thirty minutes that followed were unremarkable with a standard landing, standard de-boarding, standard customs, and standard baggage claim. Let the record show though, that I purposely used the standard toilet in customs, as I knew it would be the last one I would see in many months.

However, shortly after getting my bag and making an arrow shot for the currency exchange, evidence that I was in a foreign land became quite apparent when the power in the building went completely out for 10 minutes, and no one thought anything of it. “Well, other people in Delhi need power too!” said an old man standing in the dark on my left. The power did eventually come back on though, I got my rupees, and I made another arrow shot towards the exit as I was determined to not break pace towards my destination - Bagar.

Upon exiting the airport, I shortly found my driver holding “Benjamin Haynes” in large letters, and after a single point and nod in his direction we were off to his little white car. During our walk though, I found it extremely amusing that as we came up to an older and slower man on the sidewalk that was in our way, instead of walking around him the driver simply tapped the old man on the shoulder and directed him to move out of our way, which he did without protest - more evidence that I was not in Kansas anymore.

After loading the car with my cumbersome backpack, I sat in the blanketed backseat of his car. “Air conditioning?” he asked me. I had learned earlier that it was an extra 2-cents a kilometer, and decided to splurge. “Sure” I said - we were off.

Now, for the past eight hours I had been going over 600 mph at 30,000 feet, but this car ride was by far the most awe-inspiring form of transportation I had ever taken. I had heard for years from my friend Akhil that India driving was like non-other, to which I would promptly scoff. However, the next 5 hours of my life consisted of total automotive chaos. Whereas in the States I am used to rules, caution and safety on the road, Indian highways and roads do not have these luxuries. In India, traffic was a relentless, split-second balancing act of give and take between all drivers on the road. I watched in white-knuckle awe as cars ceaselessly darted in and out at high speed with inches to spare. Motorcycles often had three people on board, one of which was commonly an infant. People clinged to the back and tops of moving vans. Cows and goats dotted the road’s shoulder. But after all of the chaos and close calls, my driver delivered me unscathed to the front door of the Grassroots Development Laboratory hostel - my home for the next six months.

24 Hours In London. Tick Tock.

Well, I just dropped my Dad off at Paddington Station and walked back to the hotel through Hyde Park which I must say is amazing, and approaches the grandiosity of Central Park - this reinforces my opinion that Boston really needs to get its ass in gear with The Commons, but that's a whole other discussion.

Regardless, it was tough to say goodbye to my Dad on many levels, and now I'm left for 24 hours with that odd feeling that delicately straddles nervousness and excitement. Wait, did I just say "delicately straddles"? Oh well, it's a hell of metaphor and I stand by it.

My First English Race Is In The Bag.

Just got back today from Raceday of the Silverstone Grand Prix with my Dad and it was a great experience. The crowd was - not surprisingly - heavily biased towards the two English drivers (Button and Hamilton), but neither delivered a stellar performance, so the mood at the track was a bit conciliatory.

It's worth noting though, that the crowd itself was the main difference that I noticed between an English race and an American race. Even in the States where F1 isn't that popular, the crowd stands at the start of the race, cheers, yells, waves flags, and has the assorted groups of drunken hillbillies. At an English race though, it's completely different. At the start of the race - the most exciting part of the entire weekend - everyone remains in their seats and observes. Then during the race, the crowd is nearly silent, wholly motionless, and simply claps at the ends of the race as if they've just witnesses a satisfying opera. And as for the boozing, I've never seen such a large group of people consistently drink throughout the day as I did each day at Silverstone racetrack, yet there were no real drunkenness per-se. It's almost as if they're adults or something...odd.

Regardless it was a great day for my Dad and I, and we're already planning our next abroad trip to watch in F1 race - perhaps Bahrain in 2010?

The English

I like the English, honest to God I really do. In fact, I’m quite proud of my English heritage despite my tendency to fixate on my Polish background for the main reason that it plays for much better comedic fodder at social gathers. Regardless, I do like the English as a people, but have become quite aware of their many quirks (a.k.a, flaws) during my short three day stay here. The three most notable things are as such:

LIMPING

Walking around the Silverstone racetrack now for two days, I have noticed a shockingly large number of people limping. Now, I'm not talk about extremity-dragging limps, but simply a general gaff in one's gate that seems to come from a past ankle, knee or hip injury. Regardless, whether this is a result of a poor healthcare system or insufficient footwear, it really needs to be addressed.

TALKING WITH THEIR TEETH

Ok, I'm not exactly breaking new ground here by saying that the English have "challenged" teeth. We're all aware that instead of the uniform pearly-whites that Americans are used to, English teeth cent to be brown in color, oblong, and seemingly placed in their mouth at random. But that’s not my main observation here. The truly odd part is that when they speak, they do so in a way that specifically showcases their dental dilemma. Whereas a simple “Hello” would easily cover the problem at hand, they decide to gleefully belt out a “Ha-looow!” while showing molars and bicuspids that I only see in the mirror at my dentist's office. If I had teeth like that, I would resort to grunts and smoke signals

FRUMPY WOMEN

Yeah, I SAID it. So what! English women suffer from chronic case of "The Frump", and I refuse to become a martyr for calling it out. They all seem to be wonderful bright-eyed women, but they also seem to have a penchant for fried foods and ill-fitting jeans.

Catching Up

So, I’ve had this Blog for only 6 weeks, and so far I’ve been neglecting it like a cheap household plan. I first tried to catch up by documenting all of the nuances and innuendoes of my life over the past three weeks, but found myself overwhelmed by the amount of information. Therefore, I’ve decided to post the Cliff-notes version instead so that I can get back to posting relatively current happenings in the detail that I like. Therefore, without ado, here it is:

• Moved from Boston on 6/1 and dropped all of my belongs off at my sister’s house in NJ, and got to spend a great four days with her, Josh and The Mads (my niece Madeline). They are all doing really well, proudly creating their own brand of chaos with a new house and daughter, and Madeline is turning into the cutest thing with ten toes and fingers.

• I moved back to my parents house for two weeks while I waited to leave the country, and was startled with how easy it was was to live with them again - albeit for two weeks. But still, it was pretty damn impressed considering I’m nearly 30, was living with my parents, and have a decent ego and sense of pride

• Left for England with my Dad on 6/17 and was totally heart-broken that we had to leave my Mom alone at the airport dropoff. She’s a seriously tough cookie though, so I’m sure she is dealing with it in her usual calm and functional way.

• Been in England now with my Dad for about three days, and our time here has been perfect for what we planned to do (watch cars, talk about cars, and spend time together watching and talking about cars) but pretty damn frustrating at times with various unpredictabilities like a blown tire 30 minutes after getting our car, losing our car for two hours in a parking lot, and taking two more hours the next day to get a parking permit for our car. So in that case, cars have been the pinnacle and downfall of this entire trip. Go figure.

Ok, so that’s pretty much the skinny on what has been going on.

One Man. One Key.

I found the newest microcosm of my life this morning, and it’s my keys - wait, let me rephrase that: my “key”. The only key that I have in this world right now sits alone on a large, scratched and tarnished metal ring, and it’s the key to my bike lock. I don’t know yet whether to be proud or slightly ashamed of this fact, but it does make me feel like some sort of hobo-like vagabond.

Regardless, my key ring hasn’t been this bare since I was twelve years old when I got my first bike lock. So in that case, I guess there is some sort of solace when life comes so perfectly full circle like that.

Wait - I'm leaving?

It got very real today. Had to say “goobye” to some of my best friends in Boston, and I realized that I am actually LEAVING. Though I am nearly 48 hours away from putting Boston into my rearview, the gravity of this is still fresh and foreign. I have meticulously planned everything from permits to packing tape, but still find myself blindsided by the most obvious of emotional trip-wires.

Good for ME.

Why is it that when I tell people I'm going to India, the most common response by far is:

"Good for you."

Which is then accompanied by the smile-cracking facial expression equivalent of an ol'pat on the back. I feel like this response should be reserved for people that have recently dropped weight, or stopped using hard narcotics.

Learning Hindi is like being bipolar.

After a week of learning Hindi, I’m actually pretty damn impressed with myself. I can honestly say that with the Rosetta Stone program I got (NOT cheap), I have learned more Hindi in seven days than I did French in three years of middle school - sorry Mom and Dad. I can't take all of the credit though, the facilities are wonderful at the Haynes Language Lab learning annex located in the west wing of my apartment; I have included a pics to the right.

The problem is, the path - though short so far - has been rocky. One morning I thinking I’m ol’Mike Gandhi slinging Hindi vocab and sentences like it’s my job, but by later that day I come to a lesson that seems to throw a poo-colored monkey wrench into the whole thing. I guess that’s just how learning a language goes, and as the weeks go on I’ll get

better and better. However, I am painfully aware that once I get Hindi down cold, I’ll move to India and have to actually speak it, and that poo-wrench will go a-flying once again.

The avalanche begins.

Avalanche? Is that bad?

No, it's not.

But that's how all of this feels.

Four days ago I went to bed with nothing planned, no anticipation for the next day, a lackluster level of energy, and a thick feeling of boredom oozing out of it all. Today I woke up full of energy, eager anxiety, and new goals - am hoping that I can get rid of my apartment in time, waiting for the delivery of my military-grade computer case, and running through the fresh Hindi in my head.

Ever since my acceptance into the Grassroots Development Laboratory's marketing/advertising position for Sarvajal water (piramalwater.com) in Bagar, India, my life has been a complete blur, a 180, and it couldn’t have come at a better time. Though my days of job searching and healthy living began in February with an invigoration and wide-eyed optimism that ran all the way through March, it was all starting to get very stale. I always joked that unemployed life was like living the life of a trophy wife, filling my days with working out, house cleaning and self-imposed organization - but the fact of the matter is, that’s not what I consider life. I like life to feel like running down the street with everything coming at you fast and then flying behind you even fast, all while the periphery speeds past in a blur - unemployment felt more like treadmill.

Regardless, I couldn’t be happier now. I have new challenges, new goals, and family and friends that stagger me on a daily basis with their selfless offers and support.

I’m finally back running down the road now, and faster than ever.