Tonight is my last night in Pune, and here are the top 8 things (ranked not by importance, but rather, by nepotism) I will miss about it:
1. chuha—I drink tea (with milk and sugar, sometimes with other goodness) at least twice a day, usually more. At school, around four-thirty, at somebody’s house, etc. I am usually drinking tea in the morning before my eyes adjust enough to read the Times of India. Actually, I’m just going to miss
2. Mornings in general—I wake up, do some yoga exercises in my room (sometimes) that my baba taught me while listening to soothing music. I do the yoga on my tile floor which has a thin hemp rug which always moves when I do yoga on it. Then I put on my favorite pants in the world, my morning pj pants (I recently bought my new favorite shorts in the world at Big Bazaar [guess what that is]—stretchy, breathable, cotton, maroon, and wholly loveable). I have my #1 while reading the smut gossip about American actresses across from the I-can’t-believe-this-is-how-they-perceive-America headlines and the news about Indian politics that I don’t understand. After a half hour of that, I hop to the bathroom where I have my bucket shower. My bucket shower involves a big bucket where the water from the bath spigot pours into and my plastic measuring cup that I use to pour onto my arms, and stuff. By the time I get out of the shower and get all my stuff for school ready, breakfast is ready. Breakfast (see #6) is usually either some sort of grain with spices and a few veggies or a bread omelet. But I always have Bourn Vita, the Indian equivalent to Ovaltine, and with a better name (to me Ovaltine=octogenarian). On my way out of the apartment complex, this one guard and I have begun to say “Namaskar” as many times as we can to each other while I pass by. He only speaks Hindi, so that’s about as far as we get. Then I ride three kilometers on my mountain bike to Laura’s place, and proceed to school via
3. Rickshaws—or more specifically, being able to communicate with them. I am going to miss my tariff card, which tells me exactly what to pay from the meter. I will also miss knowing how to get around Pune, and arguing in Marathi with the rickshaw walas about price or where to turn or where they have change. In fact, I’m just going to miss speaking in
4. Marathi—It’s a tough language. Don’t get me wrong, at this point, when I am supposed to be at my most fluent, I understand about 60-70% of what is being said in a casual conversation. Serious conversations, that number drops like my ability to speak Spanish has over the past couple months (today I forgot how to say hello, still don’t remember). And my speaking ability is usually limited to three-word sentences. Nevertheless, Marathi has been a comfort to learn, whether on the street and quasi-spying on Indians because they think you don’t understand, or at home with
5. My Host Parents—they are great people. I have come to learn that my aai is really funny. She is really sarcastic all the time and has good facial expressions. My baba, the more loquacious one, does not have that same funny bone. His jokes remind me of my late paternal grandfather’s (A.K.A. bad). The three of us have become addicted to “Kaun Banega Crorepati” (Indian “Who Wants to be a Millionare”) with the main man of Bollywood himself, Amitabh Bachchan. At 68, he still can pull of a toupee like when he was able to at 48. His baritone voice and pleasant demeanor make watching the show (though in Hindi, but the questions are written in English) really enjoyable. We always watch “Crorepati” over dinner, adding further to the splendor that is
6. My aai’s cooking—She is a really good cook, even by Indian standards. The bhajis are always flavorful, the dal is always salty and spicy, the rice, piping hot, and the chutneys, a perfect cool yet savory flavoring to make any dish that much better. Also, she makes the following food items from scratch: curd, butter, ghee (concentrated butter), mango pickle (a mango pickled with red chilies and oil), lemon pickle, green chili pickle, (unknown Indian fruit) pickle, chhapatis, dosas, and then the actual dishes. All of that, plus whatever I want for breakfast: pohe, kichhri, upma, dosas, eggs any style, toast, etc. Sometimes I come home for lunch, which is a treat because the food is freshly made, and Pushbab, my aai’s cook (more like sous chef), is there. She and Nirmala, the cleaning lady, don’t speak a lick of English, but it is still nice to say Namaskar to them. Nirmala speaks very quickly and always assumes I speak more Marathi than I do (P.S. they call them servants here). Speaking of Marathi disparities,
7. ACM—Associated Colleges of the Midwest, a floor or a building located near “midtown” Pune. We American students would arrive every morning for two classes, usually finished by about 1:30, then go out to lunch at a local joint called Baba Food Mall, and then return for the rest of the day to do work there (free internet!). Tukaram and Subhan bring us tea and their warm personas as Anjou tells us about our next travel excursion while Shruti makes sure the bureaucracy will let us. Sucheta, the program coordinator and Marathi teacher, leaves in the early afternoon, but not before she helps us with anything we need. It has kind of become my daytime home.
8. Everything that has become mine—I will miss what I have called my own for the past couple of months. Maharashtra, my state, Pune, my city, Baner, my part of town, Blossom ‘N’ Springs, my apartment complex, Patrakar Nagar, my school’s street, Baba Food Mall, my lunch joint, Marathi, my language, Barista, my coffee shop, my route to school, my morning rickshaw crew, my drug store where I get chocolate, my bicycle, my part of the street where goats sit in the middle of the road like a goat island, majhya aai and baba, my bed.
I’m leaving all that tomorrow. I'm going to miss it. It is the end of program time in India and the beginning of my time in India. I have my books to read, my things to write, and my sites to see, my people with which to travel, my trains to catch, that is all.
Happy Late Thanksgiving, Happy Hannukah, Merry Christmas, and Happy New Year. While I’m sad to be missing all of these things with the people that I love, I am looking forward to another adventure. I miss you all, but at the end of the day, there are sometimes when a man must smell at his own pace.
