A Most Glorious Return

I’m home! God, it’s weird here…

I really, really can’t believe I’m home. It feels great, but strange as well – I didn’t really foresee past the end of India, and while I consciously accepted that I really was going to be home at some point, subconsciously it’s like I never expected to leave. I feel like I’ve come back from war!

The flights were fine – the guy beside me on our way to Istanbul managed to fall asleep and wake up about six times before we’d even left the ground. Every time he managed to make a huge show of waking up as if he’d completely forgotten where he was. It annoyed me to the extent that I forgot to feel sad about leaving.

I stayed awake for most of the flight. I think for the most part I really enjoy flying, as long as I’m not surrounded by an ensemble of gombeans along the way who insist on reclining their seats upon you before you’ve even taken off (I mean, really, did that guy expect to sleep as the plane hurtled forward from the ground into the air at 300 kilometres per hour? Most people have trouble breathing…), the chorus of screaming babies, the messy eaters who get the already-less-than-satisfactory airplane food everywhere, the snorers, the every-fifteen-minute-pee-ers and those absolute gobshites who steal the armrest.

But really, I do like flying.

Flying back to Dublin was something of a surreal experience. The first part of the flight seemed to drag out forever – I felt like I’d watched about three movies and done all the Sudoku they had before it even got to halfway, but then… I don’t know. Every few minutes that we got closer to home, I got more excited, I guess – but it didn’t feel like the usual jittery hyperactive happy excited; I’d like to think it was a little more profound than that. It felt like that sequence in Inception when Leonardo di Caprio is going through the airport with that rather stirring Zimmer soundtrack playing “Time” in the background, and there’s that look on his face when the nice passport control guy says, “Welcome home, Mr Cobb.” What I’m saying is, all of my life’s events are dramatic and movie-worthy and I have looks equal or greater than those of Leonardo di Caprio.

For the last part of the flight, I just watched the real-time flight information, and I watched from a whole bunch of differently-scaled maps as we flew over Europe, over the UK, seeing bits of the world that made me think, “Nah, we couldn’t be there, that’s too close to home to be where I am” and then finally we began our descent into Dublin, where the whole thing began.

I physically wasn’t able to keep from smiling when we were flying in. I was looking at the ground – Irish ground! – and I’d never been so excited to see that dull murky green landscape beneath me. When we hit the ground I nearly laughed! I’d say the guys beside me were wondering if I’d had too much to drink when the air hostess came around with the drinks trolley. I can only describe what I felt as pure elation. Even writing about this makes me wonder – why does anyone feel this way about returning to the place where they come from? Why does it matter so much? I’d say it’s just a place, but it’s really, really not.

We landed at half four in the afternoon and were guided into to our gate by Irish guys in high-vis jackets. It was so weird to see a place like this being managed by white guys! I felt like I’d never seen anything but brown skin and black hair in my life! Because a lot of people on the plane were also Irish, they managed to stay in their seats until the seatbelt sign was off (something the Indians never seemed to manage when we were travelling) and then we were stepping off the plane into Ireland. It was a little anticlimactic that we had a tunnel instead of walking down the steps, but I still had “Time” playing in my head as we walked through the airport, past passport control (in my head the guy behind the desk said “Welcome home, Mr Cobb.” It wasn’t the same but I still had a great time!) and into baggage.

Up until then, we had been a band of travelling Irish people, all with the same experiences – the same elephant pants in our bags and the same Indian silk scarves wrapped up for our families, the same wall decorations and photo frames the kids had given us on our last day of school, the same stained T-shirts from ten weeks in forty-five degree heat and a camaraderie forged through laughter, sickness, heartbreak, wonder, and most of all, sweat. I’ve never been linked with people in quite the same way before – in all seriousness, there’s something else to a friendship that comes through persevering against the same struggles in a difficult world, rather than a friendship made because you were scared on the first day of school and needed someone to find the toilets with you. We’ve lived together experiencing something out of the ordinary, something incredible, enlightening, devastating and wondrous – something that precious few else will understand.

We said our goodbyes at the carousel, the hum of luggage whirring slowly around replacing my infinitely more elegant imaginary soundtrack. It was a strange goodbye – we’ll all be seeing each other in a few weeks at the Suas return weekend here in Dublin, but I think what made it different was the feeling that this was more of a goodbye to India than a goodbye to each other. We were still wearing our travelling clothes, our faces were still gritty and bare – after this it would be homes like palaces, college, the friends we’d left behind rather than the friends we’d made, no staring, no camels ambling along the beach, no cows in the streets (although Dublin HAS surprised me in this regard before…), functioning showers, public toilets (and toilet paper!)… Past this point it was all going to be what we’d known of this world before it was turned upside down. So we said fer me lenge, shared a hug and a smile, and walked out of the end and into a new beginning.

My little sister met me first, then my parents. Everything else was instantly forgotten! I hadn’t spoken to them all summer, (except for that one disastrous Skyping incident) – seeing them all in person was overwhelming! They took my bags and listened to me spew out whatever jumped into my head about the past three months as we drove out of the airport and past Dublin’s neat little red brick terraced houses (for half an hour at least until the last few minutes of the hurling final was on!) and they brought me back to my home in Rathmines. They had done up the house, made dinner for me, put fresh sheets on my bed and they let me babble on about India through the meal until, afterwards, I slumped, too exhausted to move. All too soon they left for Waterford. I’ll see them again next weekend when we go to Gravelines in France to see my older sister row at World University Championships! Exciting times!

After that I was just about able to drag myself into the shower, scrub myself as clean as I was going to go, wash my hair and dress myself in clean pyjamas before collapsing into my bed (which is, I know now, the comfiest bed in the world). I was asleep ten seconds later, and I slept unwakeably until half an hour before my nine c’clock lecture the next day. If the world had ended over night, in the loudest possible way, I never would have known.

So… that’s it. The whole thing is over. I’ll write one more post, and that’ll be it from me. I am of course devastated the whole thing is over, but it’s been really amazing – and there is nothing in this world that beats the feeling of coming home!

See you around for one more story!

Return to Delhi… Last Time, I Promise!

It’s almost time! We have just a few more hours to go and then it’ll be time to fly right on out of here, stopping over in Istanbul and then, it’ll be fer me lenge, India!

We flew up from Goa this afternoon, catching an easy afternoon flight and landing just as Delhi was getting dark. God, it’s weird returning here – we landed at five or six, I think, and we’re leaving the house at three in the morning – we’re staying in the East End for the night, where we used to live for the ten weeks. I cannot describe how weird it is to be back here. We have one room here, and it feels so wrong that there’s just the five of us, and none of the rest. Poor Alice has to stay another night because she changed her flights so she could travel for longer, and THAT is going to feel weird! It’s so strange to think that everyone else is home (or in Sweden, in Amy’s case!), and has been for ten days now. They’ve readjusted to life in Ireland, and we haven’t even left yet.

Driving through Preet Vihar as we came back to the guesthouse was a weird experience – it was like we’d never left (except for the fact that we were in a taxi and not an auto!). We got one last Oreo milkshake from the ice cream parlour – savoured every second of it! – and tied up all the loose ends, picking up saris that were tailored while we were away, sorting out luggage in the common room, choosing what clothes we want to wear when our families see us again for the first time…

It’s bizarre that we’re going back. We’re going home! I feel like we’re returning from a war. There’s a nervousness and an excitement and a sickening feeling of loss too that sends panic surging through me unexpectedly sometimes, like when I saw we were passing V3S for the last time, or when Nisha, who works at the guesthouse and came to be a daily source of entertainment for us, said goodnight. I don’t want to think about leaving. I’m trying to focus on the happiness of going home so that I can’t think about everything I’m leaving behind. Right now I’m in the same city as the teachers and those kids that taught me a million more things than I taught them, and tomorrow I’ll be seven thousand kilometres away, on as good as another planet – certainly in a different world. How are you supposed to let any of this go?

I don’t know what else I can say about leaving. All our Indian experiences are over – from here it’ll be guesthouse to taxi to airport to airplane – I’ve already left everything that makes India… India. I won’t even get to see any of those kamikaze traffic antics because it’ll be three in the morning when we leave and even the yoga fanatics won’t be up (not like they have cars to drive, anyway). Looking at it like that, I guess it’s all done. It’s all over. These three crazy, crazy months are complete and to me, they may as well have come from another lifetime.

It’s finally over – there’s nothing left to do except leave.

Deep breaths. I’ll see you on the other side of the world! One last goodbye – and I’m home.

It’s Not Goodbye, Only फेर में लेंगे

The day is done. I think I’m slightly in shock; I just can’t believe it’s over. The goodbyes have all been said; we’ve made all the promises to write and maybe return for the teachers’ weddings, if we’re lucky enough. We’ve given our best wishes to the kids, whom we will most likely never see again. We’ve embraced the girls from the sewing class and given all our contact details away. Now I just feel so hollow. It’s over. I’d whine about how something as hard as a goodbye like that has to come after such a happy time, but the sorrow I felt today was only a fraction of the happiness I’ve had at Rani Garden. I think I still probably haven’t fully realised that I’m not going back to school tomorrow; not going to see the teachers and the kids or yell myself hoarse trying to be louder than them when they’re yelling verb conjugations back at me or trip myself up on the mats they sit on every day or do any of the stuff that I’ve been doing for the last ten weeks. I haven’t realised it yet. I still don’t want to.

What can I do except start from the beginning of the day? Amy and I spent it in complete panic, trying to organise everything we had planned for the last day, including presents for the teachers and sweets for the kids from Bikanervala and the saris we were supposed to be wearing the kajal our teachers had picked out for us a week before today. Going to Bikanervala was actually a lot of fun because they insisted that we try everything we bought before we bought it, so at nine o’clock in the morning I was stuffed full of enough sugar to fuel a rocket. They all tasted amazing. I don’t know if this seems over the top for about a hundred kids but we ended up buying four kilos worth of the stuff. I remember thinking at the time that four kilos of sugar plus fifty kids at a time is probably a recipe for disaster but we did it anyway.

It was just past ten when we finally managed to procure our auto to the school. We were panicking a little over the fact that it was our last time ever making the journey. Here, have a look at us and our driver! Amy managed to get a snap…

 

We wore T-shirts and harem pants in and when we arrived the teachers were all dressed up, make-up on, cham-cham shining in the fluorescents of the classroom and smiles lighting up the room. The big ceremony was to be held upstairs in the kindergarten classroom which is actually about the size of both the classrooms, so all the kids were sent up there and we were kept on the inside classroom on the ground floor while the teachers dressed us up in our freshly-tailored saris. It took quite some time. The mothers of two of the younger teachers came in to assist with the process (and when I say assist I mean do the whole thing themselves because it’s not like we had a clue). Saris look like they’re effortless to put on, much like togas or any other sheet-like form of clothing, but the truth is they’re impossible to get right.

How to put on a sari:

1. Put on the petticoat. This is like a skirt with a string around the waist, just below your belly button. Tie as tightly as you can possibly bear. Like – squeeze your guts out. Do it.

2. Drape the end of the sari around your waist and tuck it into the top of the petticoat, then tie the ends in a knot and tuck it into the petticoat as well. By this stage your diaphragm should be begging for some wiggle room. The rest of the sari will trail around you in a five-metre long swamp of fabric while you take the next step. Do not try to move your feet; you will kill yourself.

3. Put on the top – the only part of the sari which has been tailored and is probably tight enough to crack a rib or two. Interestingly it clasps at the front, in keeping with the typical Indian woman’s self-sufficient lifestyle. #windia

4. Now take the trailing sari and wrap it loosely around your back, under your right arm and let the end of it trail over your left shoulder. It is imperative that you leave a large amount of fabric at the front, after the part with the knot. You just need to trail it around you first to make sure you get the tricky distances right. By this point, you will be surrounded by unfolded fabric in massive loops around your body, and probably look like an explosion. For the next few steps different bits of it will be falling of you constantly, so take that into consideration for the following instructions.

5. Now take the wide loop of the sari that you left after the knot at your waist. Fold it back and forth like a fan , about a palm length to each fold and fold it as many times as you’ve left room for. Then stuff the top of the whole thing into your waist. Between the petticoat string, the knot and this very large volume of fabric, your intestines will now be strangling themselves. Please read on.

6. Take a quick moment to readjust the rest of the sari which will have inevitably fallen off during the course of the last step.

7. Take the fold that drapes over your shoulder and make similar folds to the waist folds to gather all the fabric that’s falling off your shoulder into one manageable bunch. Pin it to the shoulder of the top and try not to stab yourself.

8. Now pin everything else – the waist folds, the sari into the petticoat, the drape at the back.

9. Re-do all these steps four or five times.

10. Pray it all stays there.

 

How’s the final result?

I had quite a few goes with mine and quite a few stylists to help me get it all on and I was there for quite a while. I reckon it must’ve been eleven by the time I got upstairs to see my boys. Amy went first up the stairs, then I followed. God, stairs and saris don’t mix well. I happened to be carrying a box of dictionaries that we bought for the school as well at the time which left me no hands for hitching up my sari at the front. In order to avoid stepping on all the folds at the front I had to make sure my feet didn’t hit the back of them – meaning I had to walk bow-legged up the stairs with my knees as far out to either side as I could manage. I felt – and I’m sure looked – ridiculous. Ahead of me I could hear the beginnings of a road building up from inside the kindergarten room. By the time I got inside it was deafening.

And then there they all were – all my boys, all the younger ones I used to teach, all the little kindergarteners who wave to me every afternoon when they leave for school… they were all there, roaring and clapping and grinning from ear to ear.

 

The rest of the time we spent with them passed in a blur. They danced for us and sang for us – Gulshan with his killer moves! – they showered us with presents that included everything from earrings to aprons (something I found hilarious, but it’s not like I won’t use it!) At the end all the teachers got up and danced and we did the whole Bollywood thing, laughing along to the music. The kids were all waving all the time. I remember looking to the back where Bilal and Shahnwaz were, and there was an teenage boy with them that I’ve been teaching for the last or so. He waved – a little creepily, to be honest, and Shahnwaz pushed his hand out of the air like he was my little brother! It was very sweet. Bilal was unusually reserved today – not unhappy-looking exactly, he smiled and waved with the other kids, but I think our leaving has definitely affected him – I’m not going to flatter myself by guessing how much. I guess it’s not as weird as I initially thought to hope that they’ll miss me.

All too soon it was time for school and they lined up to leave. We handed out the sweets – enough so that everyone got some of everything, and I said my last goodbyes to them there. Rahol gave me his cheeky grin, Aakash promised me he’d write, Gulshan smiled a sad smile, Isha drifted out with her regal air, I filled up Shadab’s one hand with as much food as I could put in it, Bilal gave me a final, quiet smile… Last to go was Shahnwaz. They all slipped out of that room faster than I could bear. That’s the last time I’ll see them. If I manage to make it back someday, they’ll be all grown up. Bye, boys. I’ll miss you.

When they were gone, the tears started flowing from the teachers. They were quickly quenched when we all decided that today was to be a happy day, and there were no tears allowed. We spent the break sitting around in a circle, talking and laughing, half in English and half in Hindi, sharing the leftover sweets and the food they bought for us.

It was half one when the girls started to trifle in, all dressed up in their best dressed. Twinkle was the first to arrive. She was with her mother, and was dressed up like a little raj kumari, with more earrings than ears, a trail of cham-cham glittering through her hair parting onto her forehead, a decorated burgundy sari and even lipstick on. She was shy but smiled all the same. She looked more like her mother than I’ve ever seen her. In came the rest then, one by one – Kushi, Sapna, Annu, Tannu, big Isha, little Isha, Reena, the three brothers Arshad, Atif and Adil and their little sister; sweet little Muskan, Ravi, Sahill, the two Preetis, Deepti, studious Rinky and Uneja, Monica and Bhavya… all dressed up to the nines and ready to show us their role play. Once everyone was there, our kids and the kindergarteners alike, they were all sat down and the girls came up in groups to show us some dance routines. They were incredible! It was all traditional dance. They had the whole twisting-hips thing going on and the flicking wrists, the specific finger movements – it was quite a show. We had quite a few runs of that, then the role-play began. It was a surprisingly long play in Hindi called Independence Day about a mother (played by Twinkle) who had a son called Ajun (played by Arshad) and two daughters (played by Isha and Deepti), and didn’t want the daughters going to school. Then the principal of the school (played by Preeti) where the boy was going came to the mother and begged her to let her daughters come to school. The mother refused over and over and had her friends (played by Bhavya and other Preeti) over to her house to discuss how strange this was. The mother’s husband (played by Reena), was in fact in favour of his daughters going to school. In the end the mother gave in, and the two girls went to school. At the end, years later, the principal met with the two girls again. One was a doctor and one was a lawyer, and as far as I could tell, poor Ajun was driving a tuk tuk around somewhere. I didn’t of course understand any of this, but the teachers explained it afterwards and then we realised. The kids were amazing! If Twinkle wasn’t so bent on becoming a chartered accountant I’d be all for her going to an acting school and becoming a star.

Here she is! 

 

After that we did the cup song, we did the whole dancing thing again with the teachers, then we lined them up and and gave them their sweets and said our goodbyes. I didn’t know what to say – I just kept telling them, “Write to me, write to me! I’ll write to you!” And then the same as the boys – Reena, the Preetis, Tannu, Twinkle – Isha – there were hugs and tears and then they were gone. All too soon, they were gone. God. I’ll probably never see them again. I don’t know how I’ll cope without them. My only, only consolation is the sliver of hope that they might write to me.

After that we got our stuff together and said the final goodbye to the school itself. It didn’t bother me that much. Without the kids, it’s just a building. We went to Akila’s house afterwards. It getting on towards the evening – the sun was still there but it was gold and low in the sky. At Akila’s place we were given an incredible feast of pakora, sweet biscuits, pastry, chai – it really was spectacular. One last amazing show of their outstanding hospitality.

 

We talked and remembered the good times we’d had, which took quite some time, and we only scratched the surface of them. Then came the hugs and the kisses and those last goodbyes. I don’t think I’ve ever been quite as affected by someone telling me they loved me; I couldn’t help but say it back without hesitation. The fact that this goodbye was so hard just says it all.

One by one they left us for home, and we got our last auto back, and that was it. It was over.

I don’t think it’s a bad thing that I was relieved to finally have it over. I wish I didn’t have to say goodbye – ten weeks is just too short – but the goodbyes were exhausting and heartbreaking and by the end I just couldn’t take it any more.

We stayed in this evening. We girls took off our saris and all the gifts of jewellery, rubbed the kajal from our eyes and took down our hair. We had a very tired dinner in our common room. Now we all just feel empty and drained… but there’s a strange sort of relief, too. It’s a bittersweet one, but there is a certain feeling of a mission accomplished.

I’ll never forget these people, I don’t think I could if I tried. I’m not going to cry because I’m leaving; I’m going to smile because I was there.

It’s not really goodbye. Just… फेर में लेंगे

 

 

 

One Day More

Last day of teaching. Weird, weird, weird, weird…

We handed out our lovely glance cards today so it was something of a late Eid gift. I’ve told them to look after them because I think they’ll be really useful for the future – school especially. There’s the added novelty that they’re cheat sheets so their school teachers rent to know about them.

I spent the morning with the boys’ class, showing them how to use them and what it all means. I think the general feeling amongst our team at the moment is we’re trying to pack in as much stuff as we possibly can over these days because we’re trying to equip the kids with as much knowledge as we can before we have to go. Realistically we’re not going to make that much of a difference because it’s the last few days and I don’t really know how much of a help we’ve actually been over the course of these 48 hours that we’ve had with them today and yesterday, but it certainly hasn’t been pointless. Yesterday and today after school was spent in a flurry of glance-card- and booklet-making in our house – everyone’s got the markers, staplers, glue and scissors out and we’re trying to cram in as much vocab and general STUFF in as we can. Tomorrow will be a last-ditch effort for giving them all these cards and sheets and information. We can’t exactly teach them anything on a party day but it’ll be something they can use for later.

During the boys’ class, I saw the first hint that they know we’re leaving. We haven’t really talked about it… but today all the kids I’ve been teaching the longest – Bilal, Rahol, Aakash, Shahnwaz – they came up to me with a piece of paper.

“Ma’am! Cell phone number!”

There was a few reasons I couldn’t give it to them – such as the sheer cost involved if they tried to call off their parents’ phones or the fact that if they did actually ring me, what am I going to say? If I told them I missed them or asked them how they’re getting on at school, they mightn’t understand, and then I’d be on one end of a silent phone line while their rupees trickle through their fingers. I’m giving my address and my email to my teachers though, and they’ll pass that on to the kids I’ve been teaching. I’ll write. I hope they’ll write back.

During the lunch break we made our last lunchtime visit to a teacher’s house. You know the drill. What made this one particularly great was a the little girl of this teacher’s best friend, called Maniya. She’s four, but she was incredibly chatty and never let a silence slip by unbroken. She was so comfortable around all the adults and the strangers – arguing with them and singing for them and playing imaginary games in front of them. She held this comb up to her eyes and one of the teachers translated for us what she was saying as she ducked left and right to avoid attacking alien spaceships. The whole display was fantastic. At the end she danced for us in the middle of the floor, and we joined her for a bit, and then headed back for the girls class.

And after that it was over. We’ll never teach those kids again. It’s not goodbye yet but they’re slipping away all too quickly. I feel like things are going into overdrive now – we’re stepping up into a higher gear and from here on in it’s going to be a fast and furious time for the last couple of weeks until I leave the country. It all starts with the goodbye tomorrow. Tomorrow is going to be great and awful; I’m dreading it so much. I’m scared of leaving – if I could pack my bags and leave now without going through with the goodbye, I would, but it’s not like that’s an option, and it’d be pretty cowardly anyway. I’ll just have to take it as it comes.

When we came home we had our second last class of yoga with Rajesh-ji, which as always was fun. I need to write down all his poses so I can use them for later. I always feel great after the classes – I’m going to miss Raj as well. He never fails to make us split our sides at one point or another with his limited English, and he laughs so easily as well.

We spent the evening, like I said before putting together all this stuff for the kids and the teachers to help them when we’re gone. It’s all verbs and sentence structure and vocab – mostly for the teachers.

We’re all wrecked now. One last sleep and then the final day.