Written in retrospect of May 1st:
I imagine she is saying something like, "What?! Do you have eyes like buttonholes?!" On a crowded road in Haridwar, I have just accidentally elbowed an elderly woman in the face. I apologize profusely, her family standing around, her yelling and hitting me in the arm, a crowd forming, all eyes on me. A sadhu is gesturing at his eyes and talking to me, I imagine he is saying something like, "What?! Do you have eyes like buttonholes?!"
Getting shoved, elbowed, body-checked, bumped, bruised, and bashed is practically an everyday experience for me in India - population density has its disadvantages. In fact, my knee is still sore and bruised from getting whacked a good one with a hard-top suitcase on the train to Haridwar. If I get an apology at all, I am impressed.
And now, surrounded by staring Indians, my apology not only useless, this woman seems offended by it. There is so much I am saying sorry for here, for so many reasons, for more than I'm even aware of, and it is no good.
Ducking into a restaurant to escape the scene, as soon as I sit down, I realize I am about to lose it. I'm not hungry anymore. I don't want to be here anymore. We barely make it back to the guesthouse before I'm sobbing into a pillow, asking myself why I'm crying. It's not that big of a deal. Since we arrived in Haridwar, standing Har-ki-Pairi Ghat, I have been overwhelmed. But, still.
After half an hour, my pillow soaked, I realize I haven't had a breakdown since my first week in India in Delhi when we missed a train. Of course it wasn't just about elbowing a very short, cranky, old woman in the face (lighter, might I add, than she hit me back). There are no words for all those tears and the array of emotions they fell with.
After hiding for a few more hours, we emerge from the room for sunset aatri at the ghat, hundreds of floating candles released by thousands of pilgrims at the place where the Ganga emerges from the Himalayas. We stand, admiring, listening to the music of man who can play a mustard oil jug better than I've heard some professional tabla players. With passion.
It is so much.
One day can hold so much, can cause so much to come to the surface. I'm not even sure what all just happened. But it is good.
I imagine she is saying something like, "What?! Do you have eyes like buttonholes?!" On a crowded road in Haridwar, I have just accidentally elbowed an elderly woman in the face. I apologize profusely, her family standing around, her yelling and hitting me in the arm, a crowd forming, all eyes on me. A sadhu is gesturing at his eyes and talking to me, I imagine he is saying something like, "What?! Do you have eyes like buttonholes?!"
Getting shoved, elbowed, body-checked, bumped, bruised, and bashed is practically an everyday experience for me in India - population density has its disadvantages. In fact, my knee is still sore and bruised from getting whacked a good one with a hard-top suitcase on the train to Haridwar. If I get an apology at all, I am impressed.
And now, surrounded by staring Indians, my apology not only useless, this woman seems offended by it. There is so much I am saying sorry for here, for so many reasons, for more than I'm even aware of, and it is no good.
Ducking into a restaurant to escape the scene, as soon as I sit down, I realize I am about to lose it. I'm not hungry anymore. I don't want to be here anymore. We barely make it back to the guesthouse before I'm sobbing into a pillow, asking myself why I'm crying. It's not that big of a deal. Since we arrived in Haridwar, standing Har-ki-Pairi Ghat, I have been overwhelmed. But, still.
After half an hour, my pillow soaked, I realize I haven't had a breakdown since my first week in India in Delhi when we missed a train. Of course it wasn't just about elbowing a very short, cranky, old woman in the face (lighter, might I add, than she hit me back). There are no words for all those tears and the array of emotions they fell with.
After hiding for a few more hours, we emerge from the room for sunset aatri at the ghat, hundreds of floating candles released by thousands of pilgrims at the place where the Ganga emerges from the Himalayas. We stand, admiring, listening to the music of man who can play a mustard oil jug better than I've heard some professional tabla players. With passion.
It is so much.
One day can hold so much, can cause so much to come to the surface. I'm not even sure what all just happened. But it is good.
No comments:
Post a Comment