All through airport security, I juggled my bags, my passport, boarding
tickets, and a crumpled paper flower. Its orange crepe paper petals were
jostled in my backpack but I couldn’t let them tear. The dark wire that held
them together bent as my bags were tossed about by careless airline employees
who just wanted to get some sleep before the sun came up. After three hours of
security checks and crowded gates, I boarded the plane that would carry me away
from this unforgettable chapter in my life. As the stewardess held up the
sample life jacket and began her routine safety speech, I gently twirled my
orange paper flower.
Today was my last day. As I walked up to the
school, Shivam appears from out of nowhere. He hasn’t been coming the past week
or so except to say hi so I was surprised he was here. Immediately he and Rajn
greet me and ask, “Didi, last day?” Yes I answer. “Ok, come.” They lead me into
the small dark classroom and Shivam pulls his drawing folder out of his
backpack. All the kids gather round as we flip through his tracings of Disney
movie characters. I mention something about Good Friday and Shivam looks up,
interested. “Christian Holy Day?” Again, I answer yes. He pulls out a blank
page and begins to draw. Slowly the figure on paper becomes recognizable: Santa
Claus. When I ask, he eagerly replies “yes, Santa- your god!” Somehow I’m not
at all surprised by the effects of commercial Christmas and capitalism, though
I had to laugh.
Soon I realize I haven’t given the teachers the
photo album I made for them yet so I walk over to the head teacher and hand it
to her, hoping she won’t steal it and hide it away somewhere. Luckily she hands
it back to me, giving me the opportunity to show the kids and other teachers
their photos. Soon class begins and the kids all settle down to write their
numbers. Afshar asked me for his pen. He had entrusted it to me for safe keeping the day before while the school was under siege from a troop of baboons. Not surprisingly, my Hindi vocabulary had no way sufficient way of explaining that in the midst of the baboon attack, I had lost his one and only pen. All I could do was offer him my favorite pen from home. Afshar scribbled something and Shivam joked that it looked
like Urdu (the language spoken in Pakistan). Afshar then writes out something
in Urdu at the kids’ request. I asked him to write my name and he did. Then
Dinesh must have made some comment
about Pakistan because Afshar reached for his throat and looked furious. The
other kids called Sir-ji who started yelling at Dinesh. I didn’t know what he
said but he was definitely defending Afshar and made gestures of a group
inspiring unity, not prejudice. Dinesh was told to sit in a corner after that.
With Sir-ji nearby, the kids were pretty calm.
We talked and played the paper game and drew helicopters, airplanes, and
crocodiles. At 11:50 I asked if the kids would write me letters when I was back
in the States. I gave them my address and phone number but I don’t know if they
will ever contact me. Rishi gave me his phone number. When the car arrived, I
went to say goodbye to the teachers. I signed the visitor’s log and as I stood
up to go, Afshar and the other teachers appeared holding an orange paper
flower. I felt like crying, all I could do was smile and say thank you. Driving back to Hauz
Khas, I held back tears with a smile. Though I was looking out the window
watching Delhi pass by, I saw nothing yet felt everything.
Suddenly I can’t remember what it’s like to be home, to drive
down wide empty paved streets passing manicured lawns. I’ll miss the
motorbikes, the rickshaws, the honking, the diseased cows, the dusty signs
stacked on top of each other. I’ll miss the food that I never thought I’d like.
Malai Kofta, Aloo Gohbi, Paneer Tikka, Tandoori, Fried toast in sugar syrup.
I’ll miss the Nokia ringtone that is everywhere. I’ll miss the people and the
life. I’ll miss India. But only for a while… I know I’ll come back to this
chaotic, colorful, complex, and incredible place soon.
