Homes

Somehow, even being back in Philadelphia, I can’t escape literature about India.  I recently picked up a book that I had tried to read on my very first trip to India six years ago.  This passage, a dialogue between two soldiers – one from Bangladesh and the other Britain - resonated with me:

“ ‘Please.  Do me this one, great favor, Jones.  If ever you hear anyone, when you are back home – if you, if we, get back to our respective homes – if ever you hear anyone speak of the East,’ and here his voice plummeted a register, and the tone was full and sad, ‘hold your judgment.  If you are told ‘they are all this’ or ‘they do this’ or ‘their opinions are these,’ withhold your judgment until all the facts are upon you.  Because that land they call ‘India’ goes by a thousand names and is populated by millions, and if you think you have found two men the same among that multitude, then you are mistaken.  It is merely a trick of the moonlight.’ ” – White Teeth, Zadie Smith

This last trip to India was a roller coaster.  It surprised me and rocked my center and taught me many unexpected things.  While during my first trip to India I was moved to extend my stay, this time around I felt instead the overpowering pull of home.  It is good to be back among my family and friends, but I am still sorting through the emotions of the last five months, and especially the final few weeks.

In South India, I saw wild elephants for the first time.  I pulled ginger and turmeric out of the ground, and tasted coffee cherries and raw green peppercorns.  I tugged leeches off my bloody feet and rode a ferris wheel fifteen stories above the ground.  In a way, the months were like an extreme adventure camp, punctuated by attempts to break through communication barriers and do something meaningful and good.  The people I met welcomed me to their homes, and simultaneously pushed me away.  Even while I was learning and connecting and contributing, I was being cut loose.  I was untethered to the community, and the locals could sense it.  So many of my first conversations in India centered on the question:  why would I leave my family and everything I know to come here for a year?  It was a good question and one that, by the end, I couldn’t fully answer.  My life is here on the east coast of the U.S.A.; my work is here; my family is here; and now, I am here.

But even though it wasn’t the experience I had hoped for – not the unself-conscious exchange of cultures or the scene of a breakthrough cooperative movement – I can recognize that it’s not India’s fault, just as it’s not my fault.  India can never be the same experience twice, and neither can I experience India the same way twice.  We are two separate entities that, this time around, passed each other in the night.