On Hyderabad and Home

{the fambam}

My first few months of college, I felt oddly disoriented. I hadn't been at GW long enough for it to truly become home — although it certainly didn't take long for me to call it as such. At the same time, I realized quickly that my home in New Jersey was no longer mine. It was my parents' house, it was the place I'd tell people I lived during high school, it was the place I'd return for holidays and short breaks but it would never be home the way it was before college. Something had changed and I felt unprepared, blindsided. I'm often anxious when big changes happen in my life, and the more something means to me the more I overthink, over-analyze, over-internalize. But I hadn't anticipated that in gaining a new home, I'd lose home altogether. 

Now, nearly three years later, my understanding of home has become even more muddled. I have more homes than ever before, spread across different cities and different families and even different continents. 

As I write this now, I'm sitting on the plane. In between the sentences I've written so far, the plane started. The engine whirred and we pushed forward. Hyderabad, in the middle of a drought, is as brown and grey from up here as it is down below. The sun reflects off of metal rooftops and the higher we go the more gems I see in the City of Pearls. There's a lot of smog today, and somewhere in between land and sky the horizon blurs into a grey-blue. Is this home? Not anymore. 

Leaving Spain was brutal. This? Less so. I've been processing the end for weeks, have been anticipating the goodbyes and the see-you-laters and the hugs and the tears and the last times. The last time I take an auto. The last visit to campus. The last time I pet the two strays on my side of campus. The last time I buy chocolate from the south campus shopping complex. The last time I hug each of my friends. The last time I hug my family, for now. 

And by some miracle, I didn't unravel upon leaving. And even though some of my goodbyes were left unsaid — after all, you don't always know when you're in the middle of your last visit to a spot in the city, you don't always know when you're seeing someone for the last time — I was okay. Because it's not as though I'm going home, at least not to the home that is the U.S. I'm going to Bombay, to my grandparents' place, to that home. 

And even when I leave India in a few short days, I'm going to visit family in Muscat, to spend ten days in Oman and Dubai. Only then will I return to New Jersey, to a house full of people I haven't seen in months and a jet-lagged first meal of real pizza and a bed with soft pillows and a world of Starbucks and central air conditioning. Do I miss all of that? I did. At many points in these past five months, I've missed it all. But right now, sitting in this plane, I miss none of it. Not iced coffee, not driving, not even pizza. I miss my aunt and uncle already and I wish my friend was sitting next to me as she was on my last trip to Bombay. But I'm going home, and then I'm going to another home. And I guess that's the thing about having multiple homes. You can either chose to stay in a constant state of missing — missing people and place and all that comes with the two — or you can just accept your fate. Accept that part of you will always belong somewhere else, that the rest of you is here. You can just give in to being wherever you are, sink back into your seat, and enjoy your stay for however long it lasts. After all, you're only home for so long.

On a recent visit to Sri Lanka, I was talking to Nadee, the owner one of the Airbnb guesthouses my friend Jesse and I stayed at. Nadee was born in Sri Lanka and has also lived in India, but has spent most of her time in the UK. I told her about where I was from and how I'd spent some time in Spain and she nodded understandingly. "You're looking for home, too," she said. "So am I."


I didn't come to Hyderabad with the expectation of it becoming home, and I don't really think it is now. All my friends have left or are leaving soon. I just left. And when I drove through the city in auto rickshaw or car during my last week, I didn't feel the sentimentality I felt in Madrid. I'm not detached by any means, but this is always just going to be the city I lived in for a few months; the city in which I met the people that made my experience what it is; the city in which I lived with two amazing, inspiring, strong, and loving human beings; the city I studied abroad in. But my study abroad experience hasn't been about me and Hyderabad — it's been about me and India.


I've learned so much here. A year ago, I bought my tickets to Spain and it seems like since then my life has been moving forward more quickly than ever before. I've spent nine of the past twelve months outside of the United States, across seven other countries. Isn't that crazy? So much about who I am and what I want and what I've experienced has changed. I define myself by different parameters now. I'm more sure of myself and yet I'm more willing to admit that I don't know what I want, that I hardly know anything at all. And now, after nearly five months in this city, it's all over.


This semester has been crazy. I've come to question so much and I've come to appreciate so much of what my life is. I've been forced to confront how insanely privileged I am. I've learned to stop asking for more, to become patient for what's to come. I've learned to redefine what's important to me in all sorts of relationships — platonic, romantic, and familial. It's not that I've changed; I've simply grown into myself a little bit more.


And for the hundredth time, I'm reminded of how important this decision was — this decision to come to India. To study here. To grow here. To feel a little more uncomfortable before becoming wholly comfortable altogether.


But as I've said before in numerous other posts, there's nothing like travel to make you question what home is. I don't really tie my definition of home to any place or any people. At this point in my life, I simply can't. I don't live where I grew up or where I was born and I make new friends every year, every day. And this city isn't home to me. I'm grateful for that; it's a relief to not feel so intensely attached to a city for once. But this experience has certainly felt like home.


But now, unlike three years ago when I started college, I don't feel as though I have no home. Rather, I feel like I have many homes. My parents' place in New Jersey, my new apartment in DC, my grandparents' flat in Mumbai, my host family's place in Madrid, my aunt and uncle's place in Hyderabad. None of these homes belong to me; none of them are truly mine. But they've made me who I am. They're the places that mark so many different parts of who I am, who I've grown into. 


Like my definition of home, my definition of family has always been a bit confused. Growing up, my grandparents lived 8,000 miles away from me, and even though I'm very attached to the extended family I have in the New Jersey area, I've always felt a bit separate. So much of my identity separates me from my family, and it's something that I've been used to for years. And when I came here to Hyderabad to live with my aunt and uncle, I didn't come with too many expectations. I didn't think things would be as comfortable and natural and loving as they are. I didn't anticipate how much I would feel taken care of, how much I would feel like two people would love me and care for me and make me laugh and for once, I didn't anticipate how difficult goodbye would be.


It's crazy — before I even got to Spain I had anticipated saying goodbye to my host family would be difficult. And it was. But when I came here, I was just trying to wrap my head around living in India for five months. I didn't even think about how much I'd get closer to my family here, how difficult moving away from them would be for me.


I guess all I'm saying is, I've found a home here. Not in this city, but with these people. With my uncle and my aunt and our little fambam, as we've come to call it. These two understand my sense of humor, they know how I show love, they know how to make me happy and take care of me and I'd like to think I can do the same for them. I've come to appreciate the idea of family more than ever before and by some miracle my understanding and definition of home have become even more complicated.


And maybe that's my favorite thing about travel. You find home in the least expected of places. You find love in the least expected of places.

~ V

Halfway there

{views from Golconda Fort at dusk}

Two weekends ago, I was in Kolkata feeling frustrated with my time here and even a little homesick. My cousin Darshana — who's been living in India for the past four years after ten in the U.S. — pointed out that she feels this way sometimes too, and that this is a feeling that comes and goes for her. I’ve (only?) been here for just under three months but I’ve noticed the same pattern in my experience here. And a similar thing happened when I was in Spain. In between the weeks, in between the days, you go through shifts where something strikes you the wrong way. Maybe you missed yet another bus, maybe the heat got to you more than you'd care to admit, maybe you had one more person make you feel unsafe or alone or unwelcome. And you started to miss home, started to wish that you had the comfort of being in a place of security and assuredness without having to leave the place you were in.

I'm starting to understand that this is just what it's like to be an in-betweener, to be a person who is forever moving back and forth — physically, mentally, emotionally, etc. — between two or more places.

But that feeling passes. And about a week after returning from Kolkata, I’m at a place where I’m nearly overwhelmed with how glad I am to have come to India. I’m big on appreciating the small stuff, so a few nights ago I made a list of things that I was grateful for. Academically, professionally, and personally, things have been going well for me right now. My life’s not perfect, not even close, but I’ve been making so much progress and I took the time to acknowledge that to myself.

And as I sat there making my list of things that had made my week amazing, I realized how happy I was to be here. I love one of the classes I’m taking, and am gaining at least something from the rest. My relationship with myself and all the bits and pieces of my identity has improved so much here, and I’ve been able to talk (and write) about things I was hardly able to think about a year ago. And I’ve met so many great people here.

And I realized today that I’m halfway in. I got to India twelve weeks ago, the exact amount of time I was in Madrid. Leaving Madrid was horrible for me. I wasn’t ready to go and I kept feeling like I had more to experience, more to learn before heading back to the States and to GW. Twelve weeks into my time in India, I’m so grateful to have about just as many more left.

Around this time in Spain, I published this post on how traveling abroad is at once isolating and unifying. On one hand, you separate yourself from your friends and loved ones back home; beyond the geographical distance between you and them, there is a separation of experiences. Your friends don’t know the street you’ve come to call home, the café you go for an afternoon bite, the people you now spend all your time with, and so on.

But at the same time — and this is one of my favorite things about traveling — you are reminded that you’re part of a bigger world. Not simply because you go to a new country and realize that when it comes down to it, we’re all the same. But instead because when you travel, you become part of new communities and you find ways to connect with absolute strangers. The lady sitting next to you in a packed shared auto. The children who wave to you on your walk home. The man sitting next to you waiting for the Metro. lt is in these moments that your life begins to feel like a movie, not because of how picturesque the cathedrals and temples and architecture and scenery around you is, but because of the way strangers become acquaintances with whom you share an experience no one else knows anything about, if only for a moment. And if you’re lucky, some of those acquaintances become friends.

It’s weird to see how much of my experience in India parallels my time in Spain. Beyond the fact that the two are very different countries, the parallels are shocking to me because I’ve been here before. I’m no stranger, no foreigner. In many ways, India has always been home whereas Spain only became home. There’s such a degree of familiarity to me here, and yet I found myself experiencing a sort of culture shock in the early weeks of my time here. And now, around the same time that I did in Spain, I find myself feeling isolated from a lot of what I consider home in America. Certain aspects of my life there disinterest me. They seem trivial to me, while others don't matter at all. And the idea of heading back terrifies me. I have so much left to experience here. It's not that I have cities to check off my bucket list or more souvenirs to shop for. It's simply that I'm not ready. I’m so happy to be here, right now, to be experiencing all that I am and to have learned all that I have and to have met the amazing people that make up my community here. I'm reminded often that coming to India is one of the best decisions I've made for myself. I don’t want to go back, at least not anytime soon, and I’m so glad I don’t have to.

So here's to being twelve weeks in, and here's to twelve more.

~ V

Culture shock and Kolkata

{riverboats on the Hooghly}

This past weekend, I went to Kolkata (or Calcutta) and truth be told, it wasn't great. In fact, the weekend had my friends and me reeling and discussing culture shock in relation to our trip and the rest of our time in India.

There are so many ways to conceptualize culture shock. People talk about culture shock affecting you the first time you visit a new place, and then you adjust. And sometimes people add in the fact that you experience reverse culture shock whenever you go home, whatever home is. But for me, culture shock comes in waves. There are days when I'm good and in awe of how amazing this place is, whether it be Hyderabad or Mumbai or Bangalore or India in general. And there are days when it's hard and I'm confused and frustrated and angry and afraid. Even through that, I'm grateful that I came here because sometimes the moments where it's hard teach you even more than the moments that remind you how lucky you are to be alive, to have the life you do, to be who you are where you are.

Lately, I've been in a slump. I've been getting frustrated with some of my classes and I've been missing out on things with my family back in the U.S. and I miss what D.C. is like when it first becomes spring. I don't wish I was back in the States, not even for a moment. My time here is so limited and I don't know when I'll be in India next, so feeling homesick feels like a waste of time. But I've been learning a lot here in ways that haven't been easy and so I've turned to looking at photos of my time in Spain and making to-do lists for my upcoming summer in Jersey.

And it was in the middle of this slump that I went to Kolkata with two friends, friends who were in similar places regarding their feelings and frustrations with where we are in our time here in India.

{Motherhouse}

Before heading to Kolkata, I'd done my research. I'd thoroughly read Lonely Planet's guide on visiting the city and had talked to friends and family about what to do, where to eat, etc. And it was with that in mind that Corinne, Rachel, and I explored Kolkata. We visited popular places like the Victoria Memorial, Mother Teresa's Motherhouse, Tagore's House, and Dakshineswar and tried to eat our way through the city. 

But there were so many times during our visit that we felt uncomfortable and unsafe and it was so frustrating to constantly feel that this was because I'm a woman, because I'm a foreigner to whatever extent. It's hard to write about these things because I in no way want to contribute to the perception that this is what India is. But as an Indian-American friend pointed out to me recently, sometimes this is part of India, just as it can be a part of living in D.C. or any other city in any other part of the world.

Our trip wasn't entirely terrible. We had some pretty good food and desserts (sondesh, mishti doi, rasgulla, and even paan gelato) and parts of the city were quite beautiful. I especially enjoyed the architecture and stained glass in many of the homes. Above all, the company made the experience much better. Throughout the long weekend, Corrine, Rachel, and I were able to vent to each other about our frustrations but still remain optimistic and hopeful about what the next day had to bring. And we were all able to recognize that our feelings weren't necessarily a reflection of the city, but more so of our experiences within the city.

I'm just at a place where I'm weary and tired of feeling like my life is harder because I'm a woman or because I'm not truly Indian or not truly American and adding to this weariness is the fact that I just really miss good pizza. And then I start thinking about how I miss driving a car. How I miss feeling like I have more agency and freedom, how I miss worrying less about my safety. Maybe this is homesickness. Maybe even though there's no place else I'd rather be right now, I'm a little homesick.

{City of Pearls}

But that doesn't mean I'm not grateful for everything I've experienced here, everything I have left to experience. Because that's how you learn. The good days, the bad days, the days in between—that's why I'm here. That's why I studied abroad. That's why I travel. And I mean it: there's no place else I'd rather be right now than in India.

And plus, culture shock fades. Homesickness fades. And I know the reminder of how much I love this place, how much it feels like home, and how damn grateful I am to be here is just around the corner.

For now, I'm glad to be back in Hyderabad and upon returning to the city, I felt so relieved that it made Hyd feel that much more like home.

My next trip won't be for a couple of weeks and until then, I'm looking forward to spending more time with my aunt and uncle and checking a few things off my to-do list. Here are some more photos from our weekend in Kolkata: 

{Rachel at brunch}

{heading to the north of the city}

{French toast at Flury's}

{the stunning architecture of the city}

{the Darjeeling tea that taught me to love Darjeeling tea}

{Ambassador taxis}

{indoor market}

{peep the ray of sunshine}

{special cloth alert}

{world's smallest menu}

{my future home}

{Tagore House}

{beautiful door}

{flowers on the steps}

{windows + architecture}

{Tagore House}

{loved the greenery in parts of Kolkata}

~ V

What I Learned in India: Week 5

The past few weeks here been pretty great for the most part. We celebrated my aunt's birthday over the course of a few days—the only way a birthday should be celebrated—and I started my classes. After the chaotic mess that is registering for classes as a SIP student here—a mess that makes the Hunger Games of registering for classes at GW look like an episode of Teletubbies—I've finally got a schedule I'm happy with. I'm taking Globalization and Communication, Communication and Social Change, Hindi, an independent study called Modern Indian Thought (which explores everything from Vivekananda to the contemporary Indian diaspora and is basically the greatest class concept I could've ever imagined), Yoga, and Kathak. And I have Fridays off!

And as the time has gone by, I've also gotten comfortable with commuting alone. I take rickshaws by myself nearly every day and although I'm admittedly horrible at bargaining, I know how much to pay for my ride to campus and back. And after having a little too much fun at the mall with some friends, I have plenty of kurtas and outfits for class.

I'm also loving many of the people I've met here. My program is run by amazing individuals who are more like wise friends than authoritative administrators. I'm loving being around my family and spending hours talking to my aunt or vegging out with my uncle. And I've met some amazing people from my CIEE group and have made local friends from my classes, too.

{the inside of a Dunkin' Donuts in the mall}

Beyond this though, the aftermath of Rohith Vemula's death has been very hard on our community. I can't imagine the loss that several students and professors feel, and for many of us in the Study in India Program, things are confusing and frustrating. Classes have been cancelled for a week and half and we don't know when they will resume. We can't travel, so we've just been trying to pass the time by exploring the city but there's only so much to do. I'm trying to remind myself that only the boring are ever bored, that I can find ways to have fun if I put in a little more effort, but it's hard to do so when this isn't a vacation—it's a time of loss and political unrest and chaos.

I'm still happy to be here, even though it seems like I'm already in a slump. It's just weird feeling this way, because it reminds me of the slump I felt halfway through my time in Spain and I really hated that feeling. What's different this time is that I'm not alone, that many of my friends feel the same way, and talking about it with them makes me feel less isolated and bored. Also, because I recognize the symptoms, I'm making more of an effort to be proactive and counteract what I've been feeling. I've been focusing on applying to internships, planning travel, working out, and writing. Hopefully this feeling will pass, and I'm hoping that returning to a routine will help that happen. Until then, here are a few more photos of my time so far:

~ V

One month in India

When I got to India a month ago, I wasn't sure what to expect. I mean, I knew I'd be taking certain classes, I knew I'd be spending time with my family, and I knew to expect hot weather and sunburn. But beyond these small details, I had very little idea about what my time here would bring. For the most part, this was intentional. I wanted this trip to be what it would, rather than forcing it to become some idea of what studying abroad in India should be like. And beyond that, I really didn't know much. I hadn't seen photos of my room here, I hadn't even Googled the city or the campus, and I hadn't spoken to any of the students in my program.

And a month in, I'm so happy to be here. I've learned so much in a way that is extremely frustrating for a writer; so much has happened and I can't find the words to begin explaining or sharing, whether it be here on my blog or with my friends.

I mean, sure, I've Skyped with some friends and shown them the shopping I've done. I've been updating them on the people I've met and the places I've explored. But it's hard digging into the nitty gritty of how much being here has taught me.

Last night, a few friends and I went out in the city. We sat in a cabana and our conversation managed to become a bit heavier than what is the traditional, typical banter of an evening out. And at one point, we got to talking about the way we view things, the way we make sense of what happens to us, the way we try to understand our lives. 

One friend spoke about how rational she is, how easy it is for her to distance herself from an event to then process it logically. And although I've only known her a few weeks, I saw it. I knew her well enough to see that this was really how she looked at the world. And even still, I was stunned. I am so deeply emotional and tend to look at things based on how they make me feel or how they could impact me emotionally and mentally. Of course, when it comes to my career or my academics, rational thought works best. But when it comes to something that is heavy, I don't often detach myself from what matters to me. I can't, nor do I know if I would want to. And even though I value and admire her outlook, I know that it simply isn't mine.

In that sense, talking about India is hard. Thinking about India is hard. Writing about India is hard. Being here means so much to me and I am reminded every day of how glad I am to have made the decision to come here. But trying to explain it isn't simple.

For one, I love it here. I love the small things, like drinking coconut water, taking auto-rickshaws, riding my bike around campus, hanging out with my friends, and living with my awesome aunt and uncle.

And I love how much I'm learning here. I love that I get to constantly think about my dual identity, that I'm focusing more and more on this country's history. I love that India is helping me shape my values and that things here aren't always easy, because that is how you learn sometimes.

Last Sunday evening, a PhD student at my university here committed suicide. And the circumstances surrounding this death, along with the aftermath on personal, communal, and national levels, are so complex and deep in ways I am still scrambling to understand. It's impossible to talk about this with people who aren't here so when it comes to friends and family back in the US, I haven't. And here in India, my friends and I have been trying to understand the issues amongst ourselves, which has been hard. For one, it's the emotional depth of this situation. I couldn't help but think about the people I've lost to depression and suicide and the people I am afraid to lose. And beyond that, I didn't understand the political, social, and historical intricacies that go into a situation like this. Nearly a week later, after dozens of conversations and articles and phone calls, I'm still trying to process and think and learn and understand.

So for a while, I've refrained from writing about this. This death is not about me, and so I felt as though posting about it here would be disrespectful, especially with my lack of understanding. 

But classes have been cancelled all week and there have been protests on campus and I am learning so much that it feels weird to not write about it, as though by not posting I'd be censoring it out of my experience here.

Of course, there's no way I or maybe anyone else could have expected this. But it is important that we meet the unexpected by striving to learn and understand to the best of our abilities. American media hasn't picked up on this, but as one aunt pointed out to me, there's no surprise there. But wherever in the world you are reading this from, I urge you all to read into what's been going on. And if you can't find the sources of information you're looking for, please reach out to me and I'll try to help in the best ways I can.

At times like these, when things are hard or confusing or scary, I turn to Vonnegut. So I'm going to end this post with a few quotes. And as always, thank you for reading.

A purpose of human life, no matter who is controlling it, is to love whoever is around to be loved.

"Maturity, the way I understand it," he told me, "is knowing what your limitations are."
He wasn't far from Bokonon in defining maturity. "Maturity," Bokonon tells us, "is a bitter disappointment for which no remedy exists, unless laughter can be said to remedy anything."

"What is sacred to a Bokononist?" I asked after a while.
"Not even God, as near as I can tell."
"Nothing?"
"Just one thing."
I made some guesses. "The ocean? The sun?"
"Man," said Frank. "That's all. Just man."

Many people need desperately to receive this message: 'I feel and think much as you do, care about many of the things you care about, although most people do not care about them. You are not alone.

And so it goes.

~ V