Dear Blog Viewers,

It is morning here and I've just finished my second cup of caffeine, a necessary tea-then-coffee combo to get me through the day.  It is only a matter of time before the sinking heat pulls me back into a lazy lull, and so I'm attempting to get all of the nagging items to be completed checked off before midday. Three papers, an interview, and a field trip lay between now and my next post, but I'm so excited to share all of last week's adventure in Rajistan with you! I love knowing that some of you are keeping up with my series of illnesses, joys, and undertakings in India; your blog views keep me unexpectedly connected to back home, and I appreciate that you all take the time to look at pictures of Glucose-D and street dogs. Those five minutes of your day are certainly more inspiring to me than my random ramblings are to you.

All my love,

Melissa 

I think I'll stick with Little Honda.

Holi moli

Before picture.  

I'm studying in solitude today, something that I have almost forgotten how to do. I started out after my Hindi class on a mission to find a quiet coffee shop. Taking a left out of the black iron gate, I walked a ways and discovered, somewhere in between the decadent temple and the little boy relieving himself on the sidewalk, that I was in India, again. I remember learning in my cognitive psychology class about a patient who suffered from anterograde amnesia. HM, I think he was called. My days here are something close to that. I brush my teeth in the morning and wash my hair at night; but sometime during the day, every day, I wake up in India.
I found the coffee shop I was looking for and ordered a Cold Sparkle. I miss checking things off in my planner in one swift and productive session. It feels good. I returned to the center in a whiles time, three satisfying check marks worth of hours.
I'm in the library now, my first time this semester. I'm not allowed to look at the books downstairs by myself, I didn't feel like asking why. Upstairs are eight rows of desks with built-in shelves above the wooden work space. Out of about one-hundred students here, I am the only one with a laptop. This guilt-ed me off of Facebook and on to my blog. Indian students never make it to class, but apparently when they make it to the  library, they study. They are all studying.
This man in a blue short sleeved button-up just reprimanded a group of students Marathi. He left his rectangular gated box and approached the table just right of my desk. Leaning over to inquire, the girl next to me answered that he was saying not to talk. Now he is patrolling up and down the aisles of desk space with his hands tucked casually behind his back, his voice carrying over the heat. So this is why they are hitting the books and not the net.

Mystery solved.   

You four girls. We four boys. We party.

In Goa I discovered that I was a girl, and that, collectively, I am girls. Walking through the vacation beach town where the Europeans flock, the taxi drivers and shop keepers would call out “Hey girls!” to us as we walked from Hotel Seagull to Calangute Beach. Every time we were addressed it was: “Hey! Girls!...Taxi? Scarf? Taxi?”   

The first morning I didn’t feel very much like a girl. I didn’t feel very much like a human. My friends from the program and I hopped onto a sleeper bus the night before and woke up to our stop in Goa. We were looking pretty rough. I’m not sure that “hopped” is an accurate description of what we did, either. To catch our 7:45 pm bus my roommate Alyssa and I took a rickshaw to the Swargate Bus stop. Somehow, in the flurry of street dogs and buses Lindsey managed to call my name above the Marathi flowing from the loudspeakers. With two boxes of pizza and about six girls in tow, we used the Indian GPS (asking every other person/rickshaw driver we met) to find the business/ally way/ family home with the banner reading RAINBOW TRAVELS. Well, we made it! Except not quite. Twenty minutes later we were shuffled into three rickshaws and taken down four streets to the real bus stop/middle of the road/store front.

The sleeper bus was something straight out of Harry Potter. Two levels of beds, both double and single, flanked the sides of the bus. A little bit of Bollywood music leaked meekly out of the left hand speaker as I tried to spy on the bus driver and his assistant from my upper left-hand side bed. As I was trying to count how many stripes were on the left arm of his button-up, I got caught and he switched the cabin light off. Even so, I think that I can safely say that there were more than twelve stacked horizontal lines. The bus ride itself was great fun, and surprisingly comfortable. I promised myself that I would write my public health paper on the trip to Goa; nine hours after laying my head down for a small rest, I was at the beach. Promises don’t exist in the dream world.

The beach was a small walk leftwards from our hotel, about ten minutes and/or ten “Hey girls!” from the room. The beach chairs available were associated with the small cabana restaurants on the beach and included delivery of cold drinks and food. Vendors approached us about every three to seven-and-a-half minutes with everything from homemade dvds to massages to these strange colored balls that inflated when placed in water. I bought about six ice-cream cones throughout the weekend that were sold by men carrying coolers on the beach. My staple food item in the Indian heat.

About three ice-cream cones into the first day, a small girl followed behind her family with a few pots. On the sand near to where my friends and I were lounging, they began to set up a trapeze-esque contraption made of wooden poles and bits of string. Placing the pots on top of her head, the girl began to balance herself on top the string and walk back and forth in front of the gathering crowd. Her performance was graceful and entertaining.

Soon after, a group of military men were walking past our beach chairs. Elections were going on in Goa at the time and they were patrolling in case of disturbances. Alyssa and I gave each other the “how inappropriate would it be to take a picture right now?” look. Until they started taking pictures of us. And then they asked to take pictures with us. I just love India so much.  

For dinner that night we went out to a nice little restaurant down the road. I had my first American meal since arriving in India; only then had I discovered the real meaning of comfort food. Before dining, a group of harmless boys by the beach politely stated “You four girls.We four boys. We party!”

After burdening our taxi driver Ryan with my Hindi, we arrived at Tito’s, which is situated in a lively nighttime market. I have no American equivalent for what this little music room was like. It was mostly men who were either reinventing or borrowing moves from Richard Simmons to the beat of Spanish, Hindi, and English music. If there’s one thing I’m bringing back to the States from India, it’s those dance moves.

Xavier College, Mumbai

Students names and grades are posted in the center of campus.

We stayed at the YMCA in Mumbai.

Tiffin dinner! 

The Gate of India, Mumbai

Dharavi, Asia's largest slum

We visited a recycling center in Dharavi. 

I made an attempt at pottery in this little shop.

Mosque in Mumbai