I'm home

It's early morning in Minnesota on December 11th. It's still completely dark outside, and I can hear the water running as my little brother takes a shower before school. I'd say that my mind's a blank, but's it's not true. Traveling home was such a swirl of emotions; sometimes I had no idea how I felt about anything. Coming into Chicago, I had to run to make my flight, which was pretty funny considering that I had two huge bags and no luggage cart. But I made it to the gate, and once I stopped long enough to look around me, it was so strange. For some reason, the London Heathrow airport hadn't bothered me, perhaps because I had no expectations for what it'd be like. But this was Chicago, and it stunned me.

Everybody was on cell phones, sitting a healthy distance apart from everybody else, lest an accidental brush of jacket sleeves occur. Outside, the airport was bathed in the pinkish glow of a sunset (yep, at 4 PM), and there was so much empty space I wasn't sure it was real. Getting on the plane in total darkness, I wasn't really sure what to do. I couldn't read, and listening to my iPod threatened to pull me into total emotional disarray. So I just sat.

Once the captain infomed us that we were beginning our descent into Minneapolis, I looked out the window. We'd just broken through the cloud cover, and everything down below was sparkling and shimmering as porch lights and headlights broke through the night. The entire ground below me was lit up with lines of light, and it looked a bit like the side of the world's most intricate Christmas tree. Downtown Minneapolis came into view, with the Wells Fargo tower and Metrodome alive with lights of their own, and everything slid into place. I wasn't panicked anymore. I wasn't angry that people looked and interacted differently than I'd remembered. I was coming home, and I couldn't wait to see my family.

Striding through the airport, I was a woman on a mission. I came down the escalator and saw my Dad sitting in a row of benches. I was about ten feet away before he recognized me, which is more than understandable considering I had about a foot more hair when he last saw me. We hugged, and only then did I start to cry.

Driving home was... well, driving home. There were a few seconds when I was confused about why we weren't on the other side of the road, but otherwise it felt strangely normal. Getting home, I was only excited to see my family. I wasn't nervous; I wasn't anxious. Everybody looked a little different (God, Harry's so tall!), but they'll always be my family.

Just as I was getting ready for bed, things swung back the other way. I've been battling God-knows-what-kind-0f-amoeba-or-parasite for the last few weeks, and I thought that I'd beaten it. Oh, no. I couldn't sleep, and my skin was all itchy. I felt helpless. I had just wanted to come home, hug everyone, and go to bed, since we'd been traveling for almost forty-eight hours. I started to cry, and as I had many times while in India, I wanted my Mommy. But she was right in the next room, and she came in and hugged me. Eventually, dazed and a little feverish, I fell asleep.

And now I'm awake, having risen from my marshmallow of a bed. My mind is full with what the coming weeks will bring, with everything that I'll get to do and all the people I'll get to hug. I have no obligations; I have nothing on my plate that I'm dreading. I know I won't be on this constant high forever, but for now, I'm flying.

Love,
Sarah

In your darkest time, it's just enough to know it's there

In four hours, I'll be on a bus to Mumbai on my way to catch a flight back to the US. It's a little strange. Ok, it's really strange. Ok, fine; I'm scared to death. I've spent so much of the past few weeks preparing to leave... getting things in order, packing, and saying goodbye to people. But it didn't really sink in until last night. I'd thought about the coming home part, but not about the leaving India part. I don't really know what to think. I've swung back and forth so many times between loving it here and not being able to wait to leave. There are so many things that I miss about home, but there are certain things here that have become a part of me. Sure, I'm pretty emotional, but this is ridiculous.

And it's not just being sad to leave India... it's being afraid of coming home. I realized that whenever I've thought about coming back home, I envisioned picking up right where I left off. I'd go to the same restaurants, be friends with the same people, regain the relationships that I'd lost. And to be honest, I really want that right now. But it might not be possible. I know that I've changed. I know it more now than I ever have before, and even though I know it's positive and necessary, not knowing what to expect when I get home is terrifying.

All that I've wanted over here is reassurance that things will be the same when I'm home. I need the knowledge that my friends are still my friends, that the city is still the way that I remember it, that I'll want the same things that I did before I left. I've been pursuing that through letters, through e-mails, through maintaining as many connections to home as I could. But I couldn't find that reassurance, because it's not guaranteed.

I've been craving a sense of security and stability over here, possibly because it's something that I haven't been able to find at all. I've made some friends over here, but I'm the most alone over here that I've ever been before. It sounds depressing, but it's really not. It's stretched me to find strength within myself that I didn't think was there. But either way, since I haven't been able to find consistency here, I've focused on home as being absolutely stable. It always has been before, so why shouldn't it now? And I know that some parts will be the same... It's not like nothing will be familiar. But I'm going to see some things differently. I might not connect with some of the same people who I've missed so much over here. And the most frustrating part is that I won't know how things will be until I'm actually there. I can't plan this out. I can't predict what Sunday will be like, or the following week, or next year.

And that really scares me.

Love,
Sarah

iPod: "Polaris," Jimmy Eat World

Indelible

Things that I'll never forget about India, whether I want to or not...

-Bhajiwallas pushing their carts in the morning, calling out their wares
-Women in bright saris clustered around tables of bangles in Tulsi Bagh
-Rickshaw-scooter confrontations with inches to spare
-Interrupting a nightly cockroach party when I go in to wash my feet
-Watching from my window as packs of dogs roam the street
-Shirtless, shoeless children grabbing at my arms while waiting in a traffic jam
-Riding on the back of a scooter, holding my breath as we nearly collide with a bhajiwalla
-Walking to yoga at night, passing tea stands and fruit vendors
-Kiran's flat in Mumbai with the marble terrace and perfect view of the city skyline
-Fish spread out in Varkala
-Non-A/C trains with people packed in every possible space
-The sea of bangles on Laxsmi Road
-Nightclubs that made me think of middle school dances, with guys and girls dancing with a foot of space between them
-Pirated DVDs, books, CDs that cover tarps spread along the sidewalks
-Going to wash my hands in the sink and seeing a pair of two-inch-long antennae waving at me from the drain
-The hissing noises that pass for catcalls
-The sound of the woman next door slapping the chapatti dough over the fire
-The smell of cooking food mingling with burning trash
-Men, women, children, and dogs napping wherever they find space, whether it's in the middle of the street, in a rickshaw, or on a bench
-The herds of goats that run around everywhere, eating garbage and blocking traffic
-Street food... roasted corn, guavas, roasted nuts, wada pav, juices, pani puri....
-Watching a man push giant stalks of sugarcane through a pulping machine
-The explosion of lights and colored fabrics that mark every festival
-Dancing in the street at midnight
-The Arabian Sea, as warm as a bath
-The crowds of men that I had to walk through to get home every day
-My next-door neighbor playing Hoobastank's "The Reason" every night for about half an hour
-Movie theaters with cell phones ringing and people moving around
-Opening my curtain one day to see a giant monkey watching me
-Hearing college boys talk in Marathi about us and then turning, glaring, and saying "Mi marathi bolte... za mur!" (I speak Marathi... go die!)
-Six bananas for eight cents
-The sudden, unexpected downpour or power outage or riot that would stop the city

Love,
Sarah!

iPod: "If You Don't, Don't," Jimmy Eat World

Middle Berth, completed

So, the play's officially complete. I put the finishing touches on it yesterday morning at my trust internet cafe. I actually cried a little, if you can believe it. I know... Sarah Lee, emotional? What is this business? It was an amazing feeling, actually. I hadn't realized how much of myself I'd put into this project until I finished it. It took up a lot of my time here, sure, but it took a piece of my heart to work on it as well. As I wrote in my introduction, the moment that I decided to interview women to write a play in India, I made the commitment to enter into others' lives. I start to believe in characters in novels that I'm reading, and they aren't even real. Well, debate's still out about Harry Potter, but I'm guessing you see what I'm saying.

Writing this was one of the most difficult things I've ever done. I sat for hours in our little ACM library, holed up with the door shut and the tape player on. When I'd been conducting my interviews, I figured that I was getting the hardest part out of the way. I asked the difficult questions, I tried to push through the language barrier, and I tried to capture each woman's story the best I could. But sitting in that room, listening to the disembodied voices pouring out their life stories, I almost couldn't do it. Some of my interviews had been surface-level and provided me with a comfortable distance. But others were honest, and they cut deeply.

One of my most intriguing interviews happened at the start of my project. I'd written a bit about my first weekend in Mumbai (I believe it was a "Part I" that I never added a "Part II" to), but I haven't really mentioned this interview. I'd gone to a flat in the city to interview a serial (soap opera) actress, and I'd met her mother during the process. Her mother, Anjalai, asked if I would like to speak with her as well. I had another hour or so left in my time there, so I put a fresh tape into the recorder and sat back to listen. She spoke a bit of English, a rare thing for a woman over seventy. I asked her to tell me a bit about her life, explaining that if she spoke in Hindi or Marathi I could get the tapes translated later. To me, the most important thing was that the women could feel comfortable expressing themselves.

With that cue, she began to speak. She started out in English, telling me about her work for the Indian government and her marriage to her late husband. After about five minutes, her eyes took on a faraway look as she slipped into Hindi. For the next hour and a half, I sat mesmerized as she told me her life story. She'd laugh and then become suddenly serious, at one point furiously wiping away tears. The entire interview (not that I asked questions, really) was in Hindi, but I was spellbound. Afterwards, she hugged me and thanked me, telling me that she had never told anyone what she'd just revealed to me. I had met her less than an hour earlier.

It was moments like that that instilled a fire within me. Sure, this was a fun project, but it become something so important that I was terrified of messing up, of not doing justice to the women who took the time and the faith to tell me about themselves. What I ended up writing could never be perfect, but it feels right. As I mentioned before, the process isn't over. I'll be returning to India whenever I can scrap the money together, because I have so much more to learn and write.

But so far, it's off to a good start. Since my interviews were with mostly middle- and upper-middle-class women, I chose Middle Berth as the title for this play. Once I get the copyright straightened out, I'll put it on here. Until then...

Love,
Sarah!

Thanksgiving?

This narration will be a bit late, but it got almost forgotten in the chaos and weirdness of these past few weeks. On Thanksgiving, a few of us left for Goa in the evening. There's an overnight bus from Pune, so we left around 9 PM and got in around the same time the next day. However, even though we would be spending the holiday on a tropical beach (muahahaha), we decided to do something before we left to honor the fake turkey that we would not be consuming.

In ACM, we have a tiny little kitchen with a camp stove and a fridge full of bagged milk (we have tea every day during break). However, there's a girl on our trip who's been missing American food even more than I have been, so her boyfriend sent her a huge box full of macaroni and cheese (!!!), instant mashed potatoes, Spaghetti O's, and the like. So, the spirit of bounty, four of us got together and made kitchen magic for the holiday.

We feasted on two boxes of mac and cheese (I know, we're crazy) and instant mashed potatoes. Now, I'm not sure how this is possible, but I'd never had instant mashed potatoes before. We stood in awe as Emily dumped the flakes into water and they instantly became potatoes. Hence the name, I suppose. Emily and I looked at each other. "They're potatoes from space!" she exclaimed. Space, or Betty Crocker... both are equally magical, in my opinion.

So there we sat, plastic bowls full of carbohydrates, collapsed in folding chairs or just leaning against the wall. We went around the room in true Midwestern fashion, saying what each one of us was thankful for. It was funny at first, but then we really started thinking. We ended up with a few happy tears dripping into our mac and cheese (as if it needs more salt). All in all, it was a nice moment.

And I got my macaroni. Perhaps it'll become a Lee Family tradition in the future...

Love,
Sarah!

iPod: "Losing My Religion," Scary Kids, Scaring Kids

More than words

It's sort of funny that I'm writing about this, since it sort of defeats the purpose the the entire train of thought. But it's Saturday, and my day is packed with wandering around Pune, my dwindling rupees not burning a hole in my pocket. So here I am, in typical form.

I wrote an entry a few days back summarizing everything I'd been thinking about over these past few weeks. It didn't post correctly, and I ended up losing everything I'd written. At first I was annoyed, but then it started to make sense. I have a bit of a problem, and this blog is evidence of it. For most of my life, I've been obsessed with words. Reading them, writing them, speaking them. I grew up with mountains of books by my bed, notebooks full of short stories and poetry packing my bookshelves, and a mouth that wouldn't stop moving. I came to trust words and sentences and feel like there wasn't anything that could elude their power to bind and condense even the most complex topic. No matter what the issue at hand was, talking it out and writing about it could fix it. As a result, I've become a pretty good communicator. Too good, to be honest. I talk everything out, and I mean everything. It's useful most of the time, but not when answers aren't easily ready or even possible.

And it's true... you can't always talk an issue to death to force it to make sense. I decided years ago to err on the side of saying too much rather than not saying enough. It makes my life easier. Instead of letting little things build up and affect a relationship negatively, I say what's on my mind as soon as I feel it. If anything, I over-think and over-communicate. But that, to me, is infinitely preferable to painful silence. Sometimes it gets me in trouble, but it's been worth it.

I'd never thought of it as a luxury. It was just how I was, for better or for worse (depends on who you ask). But here, it's not that easy. Some things that I've been noticing here just don't make any sense. I've talked it out with myself, with friends, on this blog... but there aren't always answers. And I don't like that. It's uncomfortable, not finding a solution. In my mind, if I can articulate something, then I can fix it. Noticing a problem and then leaving it undiscussed drives me crazy. But I'm not in Orono, Minnesota anymore.

And then there are factors that I talked about yesterday. I can't always say what I think because of what would happen if I did. I know that there are consequences to being too open; I just don't think about them until it's too late. My mom called me last night after hearing about the riots in Pune and then after reading my blog, and we talked about it for a while (ha). I've taken for granted this freedom of expression, whether it's in a poli sci class or just talking with people who I love. It's a strong part of who I am, but it's not unconditional. It's ridiculous to me that I never realized it before. I'm not going to change, but I'll think about it more.

Somewhere, in the midst of one billion people speaking languages that I don't understand, I learned something about silence. Probably about time, I suppose.

Love,
Sarah!

iPod: "Hum Along," Ludo