And upon my return, another form of exhaustion hit me, after the first wave left: Reverse Culture Shock.
~~~~~~~~India~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Los Angeles~~~~~~~~
It's so calm here in Los Angeles. While driving down Sunset in rush hour, I noticed that everyone stays in their lanes. I walked into Starbucks and waited in two orderly lines - one to buy a coffee, one to wait for the coffee. But I still don't like them yelling out my name when my coffee's ready. That's worse than all the car honking in India.
The main reason I stopped writing the past few weeks was because I became emotionally invested in everything India: my job, the culture, the people, and the customs. And so I was commonly exhausted.
The job I came to do - teaching Indians the fine art of closed-captioning, and simultaneously, the finesse of English grammar and punctuation - went incredibly well. I got my students to emotionally invest themselves in the job in front of them, and their results exceeded my best expectations. I left India with all four employees ready for real work - beyond what I thought was possible.
So with that, I celebrated. It so happened that during the last week of my visit was the celebration of all celebrations in India: Dussehra. Basically, from what I researched, this Hindu festival celebrates Lord Rama performing the 'chandi puja.' This puja was performed to seek the blessings of Goddess Durga for killing Ravana. Ravana was the ten-headed demon king of Lanka who had abducted Lord Rama's wife Sita.
I think we'd all celebrate that.
Well, in anticipation of this fine evening, I asked Guru, my trusted trainee, what happens during this celebration. He said that the first thing that people do is purchase clothing.
"Purchase clothing?" I asked.
"Yeah, you buy traditional clothing for the celebration."
So off we went to the mall. Guru led me to the "tradition" section of the department store, and I found myself a fantastic traditional Indian outfit. Not to mention I was set for Halloween. And to repay Guru for his kindness, I bought him celebratory outfit as well. This should be fun - I'll be one with the Indians.
Ready for war. Well, party.
Upon arrival to the local celebration, a few things surprised me. Firstly, there was over 15,000 people crowded around an enormous 60-foot paper-mache Ravana demon that was filled with fireworks.
I'll have some Top Ravana.
Secondly, Guru and myself - were the only ones in the entire festival dressed in traditional Indian clothing. Hmm, can you say awkward? Tomorrow's headline in 'The Hindu': Giant American Stomping Around Celebration Seen As Offensive!
But that's actually the opposite of how it went. True, we were the only ones dressed traditionally at the festival - most there don't have the money from months of work to afford the clothes we were wearing - but contrastingly, Guru and I were instantly treated like royalty.
Within minutes of our arrival, people gathered around us for pictures, including the spiritual and political leaders of the area - they grabbed me - and thusly, we became official guests of the celebration. Pictures abound. Additionally, everyone thought Guru was an American by association - I told him, "It's working, so go with it - you have dual citizenship." Happily, and in the spirit of Scott, he did. Obviously, I've taught him well.
~~~~~My new friends~~~~~~~~~With local film writer~~~
Then finally, the most prestigious and admired leader of the entire region - JPR Reddy - adorned me with flowers, blessed me, and hugged me upon his departure.
The leader of their free world. And me.
I couldn't have asked for a more perfect trip. For a night, we were stars. Everyone around wanted a picture with me - once I was associated with the festival leaders, I took on a celebrity quality. Ironically, a far reach from my life in Los Angeles.
But as I would find out, celebrity has its price. Not just two mornings after the night-long celebration, a guest visited my hotel room. Correction: A man walked in, on his own, to my hotel room. As I got out of the shower. In a towel no less.
It was the 'film writer.' (see picture from above) Caught unawares, I told him to come in for a moment. Now fully clothed, I sat across the room and ate my breakfast. He sat on my bed and talked on the phone, speaking Hindi. This guy had not been in my room for more than a minute - uninvited, no doubt - and now he's on the phone?! Strange and absurd. Well, this guy couldn't weigh more than a buck-thirty - so I returned to my breakfast, while, incredulously, he yapped away on the telephone. Of course I took a picture.
I don't think he was on the phone with eTrade.
And of course it got better. I finished my breakfast and he finally finished up on the phone. I asked him why he came by - so in turn, he wrote a poem for me. Yeah, I know what you're thinking - don't worry, I am too. But now I'm simply amused.
~~~~~~India's poet laureate?~~~~~
Now I'm ready to go - his poem is awful, he's probably gay, and I need to get to work. Annoying, annoying, and more annoying. My car is supposed to arrive for me - but of course it's late. This is no surprise - they're in the middle of production and most of the cars are all taken up in the early morning.
And then it gets better: When the hotel staff comes to remove my dishes, he orders breakfast. I ask myself, why not? I laughed out loud, but I let him order - breakfast is free after all, and this is amazing, this whole charade.
~~~~~~~Finger-lickin' good!~~~~~~~~
And he scarfed down the food. This told me a few things - he's most likely not a writer(although my boss saw his picture and said, "Oh, the writer!"), and this guy is close to homeless. I told my boss later that he'd been bamboozled - this was no writer. I'm pretty sure his poem was evidence of that.
Now that he'd finished his 'breakfast,' I wanted him to leave. Not easy. But a little about me - when I get backed into a wall, I go on the offense. So in kind, I did...
I said, "You know what, you're such a good poet, would you mind reading some great poetry from a great American poet, whilst I tape you?" He agreed. I got out my HD camera.
The poet: Bukowski. The poem: "I'm not all-knowing, but..." A poem about... Bukowski's distaste for awful poets. An excerpt from what he read below:
Bukowski's poem about his hatred for bad poets.
And upon finishing his reading in dramatic fashion(remember, it's on HD), the phone rang. My car was here. Happily, I left word with the front desk to not let him up to my room ever again, and I went off to embrace my morning coffee.
So adieu to India, so inviting, sometimes more than one would like. But I guess in a new culture, one's boundaries must be tested in order for growth. And in India, some tests are thrust upon you whether you like it or not. At least I have the last one on tape.
I left them and walked back down the street to my hotel with a bottle of water and a smile on my face, sweaty and covered in paints and confetti. Everyone that saw me as I walked back smiled.
