Deneument

Bangalore has become home to me. Its avenues radiate with recognition, its street signs, though in mysterious alphabets, seem to make sense in my mind now. Things that once made me uncomfortable no longer do so. I hardly sweat anymore.

And it's almost time to go home. From the presents I've purchased, I now have about my own weight's worth of cargo to schlep home on the four aircraft and five airports that will take me home. A few weeks ago I needed to buy a bag that would get all these things home. So I went into a luggage store, and in the bassiest American voice I had said, "I need the biggest cheapest bag you got." The two guys looked at each other and almost said simultaneously, "the Sony". The Sony, which will one day be my nemisis, sits for now collecting dust in a neat corner of my room. It is big and blue with the Sony logo on its side. It looks like a camera bag for some sort of celestial imagery device meant to peer into quazars lying in the furthest reaches of the universe. But hey, it's a Sony.

Things are wrapping up here. I'm going to get one more $2 haircut before hitting the road in a few days, a few last knick knacks for people who never knew they needed them. Mostly it's an exercise in killing time. I took a ten hour trip to Jog Falls, the "Niagra of Karnataka" as I call it. When I got there, it was mostly misted over, but majestic through the plumes of clouds. It was nearly sunset, and I could find one place to eat, which was serving one mushy meal only. Soon after, I found the one place to stay in town, a government-run fleabag hotel that wanted a deposit in advance. The room had no exterior windows, and was covered in mold. It was an asthmatic's worst nightmare. The mattress was damp, so I slept in my clothes, on top of an itchy blanket. The bathroom was covered in insects like I hadn't seen since summer camp. I closed the door and left the light on in there to keep them away from me. The room had one dark red lightbulb that couldn't be turned off. When I switched off the overhead light to go to bed, my surroundings resembled a submarine. The dim red light, the damp, and the mold smell to top it off. I went to sleep and dreamed of Red October. The next day, I caught the next bus out of there and made the 10 hour trip back to Bangalore, mosquito-bitten and ornery.

So today, I'm just trying to find ways to spend the next 3 or 4 days. I've read so much that the books I've bought here are only adding weight to the Sony. I'm hoping that the latest 900-page tome I recently cracked will be enough to pass the time till departure. Buying another book just seems crazy, but I have to do something.

In all, I don't think I'll miss India. The more I think about it, I've never really missed a place as much as the people and the good times that took place in that place. It's more like missing a time and a place, rather than just a place. India is interesting. If I ever make it back here, I'll come better prepared, with more to do, and better company than me alone can make. There is so much to see and do here, but it is so difficult to do it on your own. Going to the bathroom on a train means leaving your bag in the company with strangers. Having a conversation means pacing back and forth and talking to yourself. Eating alone means that they'll always throw out half the rice. People aren't meant to be alone, especially in such an essentially social place as India. Nobody is ever alone here. I've heard Indian ex-pats in the states say that the hardest thing about being there is having to get used to being just an individual, not a family, or a group. Just a lone particle. There is something here that makes lonliness almost abominable. Maybe it's just the number of people here.