Jumping Ahead

Time in India is different; there's a fluidity that doesn't seem to exist in the West. Things happen when they happen. Maybe it's about reincarnation and the circle of life? Indians joke about IST (Indian Standard Time), it's expected and understood that nothing starts or ends "on time".

I too will jump ahead and behind in my thoughts about India. So much humanity was crammed into so little time I was there, it took years to unravel and examine and savor. The 45 rolls of film I shot seemed a necessity because I couldn't take it all in at once. My sister thinks I'm the unemotional one in the family, like our father, but she would've been surprised at how many times I was close to tears in India. The wonder, the beauty, the horror and the feeling of being really far away from home. I had to touch base often by calling my daughter in New York.

When I came back I plunged into everything Indian--studying Hindi at the Indian Consulate, seeking out tickets to Indian classical music concerts, and befriending shopkeepers in my local Little India. I started reading books by Indian authors, took classes in raga singing, and when I found a group called the Indo-American Arts Council I was thrilled to go to their South Asian film festivals. When I realized I was usually the only non-Indian person there, I got the point that Indo-American meant Americans of Indian descent.

I was on my own at that time, my friends thought I was on some temporary quest and they were not interested in joining me. My nephew's comment was "So now is every sentence going to start with 'when I was in India'"? My inward answer was "yes". I was hooked.

I Think You're Becoming Indian

"I think you're becoming Indian" said Nam, my favorite counterman at my neighborhood Subway sandwich shop. I was dressed, as usual, in a longish colorful kurta with harem-esque pants and dangly Indian earrings. Guess it kind of looks that way.

We've discussed at length my love for Indian culture, the work I do with Indian classical music and my pseudo-quest to find a handsome (ex) maharajah--so he knows all about my jones for India.

In about two seconds, in the time it took for him to ring up my sandwich, we went from idle chatter about the size of India and the number of people who live there to how long it took his family to fly to their refugee camp in Karnataka from Delhi. Suddenly I was seeing the "Free Tibet" demonstrations in front of the UN; here it was in real life, not seen from the safety of my car or in an article about the Dalai Lama, it was here in front of me. Nam told me the size of their dwelling in the camp for three people is about half the size of the Subway shop and if a child is born a refugee, he or she stays a refugee and so on for each successive generation.

Walking To The Wedding

At breakfast with dear friend DL yesterday memories of India came flooding in, although I haven't been there for 10 years. That trip, which was a combination of sightseeing (more like being overwhelmed with the sights and sounds) and a spectacular four-day round of parties culminating in an absolutely gorgeous wedding, left an indelible stamp on my mind and in my heart and soul.

Walking to the wedding with the groom's family, bedecked in the special sari the groom's mother wanted me to wear and a precious diamond necklace lent to me by an auntie, I saw families building their dinner fires in the ditch just outside the bride's expansive property.

It's Time To Write About India

The picture is vivid in my memory. A lone elephant bathing in the lake just below Amber Palace in Jaipur, Rajasthan, India. Mesmerized by the sight, we hardly noticed the snake charmer who was setting up shop nearby, consisting of a cobra in a basket and a flute.