Musings from India... (Moody County Enterprise, 2007)
During the summer in India it's especially pleasing to find a cool day. The monsoon season runs from June through December and this morning everything's wet. The Neem tree ferns, jasmine flowers, and even the red dirt are squeaky clean. Drops of rain swirl off the square rooftops as the wind pushes them over the edge. In a few hours this steady breeze will dry everything above ground.
Squares and rectangles of garbage are blown flat against buildings and webbed across the weeds like whitewash. Bright blouses and shirts of young Indian women, some waving bed sheets, and a few men's khaki pants hang heavy on a line between a rusted pole and a tree. Whoever hung these would have to wait longer again for them to dry. Their colors are bold in front of the dark green forest in the cool shade of the morning.
The campus of the University of Hyderabad sits on 2,300 acres of fertile land and tropical forest. It's peaceful confines rival the densely populated (6.1 million), often fierce metropolis of Hyderabad 15 miles away. The lights and bus horns leaking from the hi-tech city are stopped at the campus walls. An estimated 500,000 trees cover the campus. The space between the trees and buildings is occupied by over 120 bird species, 40 snakes species- as well as monkeys, lizards, cattle, wild boars, bats, large millipedes, humans, and something sounding like a cat.
The walk from my room at the International Men's Hostel to the SIP (Study in India Program) Guesthouse takes about five minutes. Breakfast's only served for one hour and I'm up for it. The narrow road to the guesthouse is pushed to the pavement with thriving vegetation and old piles of garbage. In the air, exotic birds fly and sing sporadic chains of melody. The peacock's cry, the stork's flight and dog's howl are kept in time by the slow ticking beat of tiny camouflage insects. And I walk slowly to it.
The black gate at the entrance of the guesthouse is never closed. It's usually guarded by abandoned two-speed bicycles or a watchman sleeping in a white plastic chair. But it's still early and instead there's two women sweeping wind-ripped flower heads off the entrance walkway. Their brooms have short handles and long, coarse bristles resembling a horse mane. They bend their backs parallel with the ground to push the dirt and the broken flower tops into the grass.
Mr. Das is the keeper of the guesthouse. I see the back of his dark head through the window behind his desk. His job is to maintain and assist its foreign residents, who are from Denmark, Sweden, Norway, France, and all over the United States. He is quiet and only leaves his desk to eat, sleep, smoke, or use the bathroom. He even sleeps in the guesthouse, but always gives the impression that he'd left sometime for somewhere and has now suddenly arrived. It should not be understated to call him a jack of all trades, nor overstated to call him a savior for us foreigners. And as far as I'm concerned, his character ensures him a place as a hero in some great love song or unwritten novel.
Six months ago, I accepted the casual invitation to study in India. My new friend wanted to go and I wanted to go with her so I said yes. Before I knew it we were on a plane over the great Atlantic and we wouldn't be stopping until South Asia- halfway around the globe. After 20 hours on three planes we arrived at the Hyderabad International Airport at one o'clock in the morning. Our luggage was lost so we filled out a bunch of paper work and shuffled through some more. We'd been sufficiently informed and warned of inconvenient bureaucratic processes. These were left over from the days of British rule and it hit us right off the plane. After an hour of confusion we left the airport with a double extra-large t-shirt, some mini-toiletries, and 100 dollars in compensation for the lost luggage.
We walked out and spotted our driver holding a sign that read, "Study India Programme". We followed him through a flood of foreign sights and sounds that can't be explained by anything short of serenity or chaos.
The city had not yet gone to sleep but we were in a trance. As we drove on I picked out young Indian men standing in every dark corner of the city- not turning their heads. Large packs of stray dogs picked through the garbage streets like people in a marketplace. Around the next corner men loaded something into the back of a large truck while three others covered it with a large tarp.
Curving for awhile, the road opened up to a small herd of cattle laying in the intersection. Our driver slowed and went off the road to miss them. As we made our way to the outskirts of the city the lights disappeared. We hoped now that we were with the right driver, but as teh lights went out the trees sprang up and so too a sign that read, "University of Hyderabad". I felt calm then and could enjoy the dark. We pulled up to the guesthouse gate where the outlines of two men stood. I couldn't see their faces. Jhaki went in with one of them to find her room. The other man sad down in a chair outside the gate. I was driven a bit further to the hostel to find my room. The driver dropped the room key in my hand and was gone. Two students from Nepal showed me to my room. I said thank you and we said goodnight.
I opened the padlock to my room that knocked at my knees. I set my compensation bag and guitar on the floor. I had nothing to unpack. I took off my clothes and laid on the dirty bed sheets. I pulled the mosquito net down from the wood frame above me and wondered what India would look like in the sun.
Miles, Jarad. "Musings from India..." Moody County Enterprise 19 Sept. 2007: A8. Print.
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