The House Wife I Will Never Be

I've been joking about India domesticating me. I've taken up knitting (and about 1/3 of the way through a burgundy scarf), I cook (quite well sometimes), I clean, and I make sure everyone has a place to sleep and blanketing at night. One of the interns asked me if I was "the mom" on his first night here.

Sexy.

On the bright side, at least I know I can run a household of 10 plus people moderately well.

And this was fine. It's a learning experience. I actually quite like cooking, I find knitting soothing, and I like things clean. We've taken to joking about what fine wives we will make.

Except I was not cut out for the doting house wife thing. It's not me. My soul rebels and, like this afternoon, I am forced to hold back tears of absolute furry.

My boss's father is absolutely and utterly incapable of taking care of himself. He has been cared for (rather, waited on) from birth by the women that surround him (mother, sisters, wife and then daughters) and, unfortunately, his wife is in the city for two weeks. That means the tasks of feeding him and catering to his guests and heating his washing water fall to us. And when I say that they fall to us, it means they land in our lap at the exact moment that he wants them done.

Take today, for example.

"Kristen-a! Kristen-a"

"Yes, Papa B"

"Come here, come here"

"What is it Papa B?"

"Come here, I need you, come here."

I am then instructed to watch the man who is collecting all our plastic bottles, carry loads and loads of bags of plastic bottles from the back area, and to "vacate" the bags (he means "empty") while he sits watching, sitting in a chair with his newspaper.

Later, while I am dressing after my shower, the yells come again.

"Kristen-a! Kristen-a!"

And when I do not answer:

"Linda! Linda!"

And when she doesn't reply:

"Misu! Ohhh Misu!"

Finally I go. I am instructed (in every sense of the word) to make chai for the men coming with our gas cylinder (purchased "from the black," meaning the black market), and to take four eggs from his fridge to make 2 omelets. When I arrive with said chai and omelet's I am told to bring a bottle of water and to speak to these men in Punjabi. At this point my irritation level is incredibly high. Then Papa instructs me to, in some time, make one more omelet. I go to take the eggs in order to prepare the omelets for his highness and he says "No, no, not now. Later. When I call you."

Servitude does not look good on me.

And I have never, in all of my days, appreciated self-reliant men more.

LOVE Part Deux

The thought comes offhandedly, rolling into my mind as I am transported by feet or bus, surrounded by the stretching Punjabi fields that reach into my heart in a way that only Saskatchewan's prairies have before.

I have been given so much more than I could, in five lifetimes, return.

And I have been loved more deeply than I could, in five lifetimes, deserve.

The Train Conundrum

I've been learning about myself. India is teaching me things.

Shocking, I know.

Some things I have learned so far (in no particular order):

1. I am grumpy when tired.

2. I do not forgive easily.

3. I have a sweet tooth. And spice tooth. The more excess the better.

4. I like to feel like a girl (and desperately want a new wardrobe and for my stolen makeup bag to be *^*$ing returned).

5. I am a practical person.

6. I am very American (in the eyes of my European, African, and Kiwi counterparts).

7. Apparently not everyone likes to dance. (Also shocking. Still working on the why, stay tuned for further revelations).

8. I hate (I mean detest, despise, push you off a moving vehicle kind of dislike) needy people. Man up, grow a pair, and get over it.

9. "Healthy" is a relative term.

10. If no one saw you eat it, it doesn't count.

And, my latest realization:

11. I must marry a man who can give excellent massages, who is patient, and who does not get stressed out when booking itineraries (particularly on foreign websites).

This very important discovery occurred around 9 pm last night when I was bent over the laptop with A, the tension in my neck so severe my skull was burning and my frustration building to the point that I simply had to hand over my credit card and laptop and walk away.

It's out of control. The waitlists for trains are a mile (or rather, 34 people) long for the crappy class. Now, we're budgeted on time to get from A to B (A being Delhi and B being Jaisalmer). Especially because my future happiness rests entirely on A, K, and I being able to trot through the Rajistani desert on camel back on Christmas day. What better way to celebrate Christ's birth than treking through the desert on the very same animals that carried gifts and men to adore him. Nothing I tell you. Nothing.

After seven failed attempts to pay and put ourselves as reservation against cancelation number 34-35-and-36, we're finally on. This saga will end in one of two ways. We will not be allowed on the train and I will go absolute mental in order to ensure that Christmas camels occur and thus we end up on dirty crowded bus or in someone's car for a god-forsaken number of hours, or the three of us will end up in the "un-reservable" portion of the train and pay an atrocious amount of money to sit next to the toilet for 19 hours.

There will be camels if it is the last thing I do.

And hopefully no more Indian train booking for the rest of my days.

My Monthly Sickness

I really did mean it as a joke. You know, "hope this doesn't happen every month." Except that it has.

October= dysentery plus hospital.

November = severe food poisoning plus hospital.

December = some other devilish stomach bowel thing that stuck me in bed like I have never been before.

Ha ha ha FUNNY.

When you are that sick everything falls into perspective. And you can think of only two things:

1) I am never putting anything questionable in my body again. I'm going so-cal vegan health freak style of the rest of my days. No more chips/soda/beer/fried food/raw veggies/cookies/anything other than bottled water/tea/you name it. Rice and beans baby.

And...

2) I want my mom.

And then of course because it is me being sick in India.... thoughts 3, 4, and 5 follow.

3) Oh man I really hope this doesn't mean another trip to hospital.

4) Oh man I hope that it's something an Indian hospital can fix. If it's something I need surgery for, I wonder if I will have to fly back to the states. Mmmm that means my mom and TV. Although, if whatever is wrong explodes in my body on the 30 hour plane right back to North America, that would be rather unfortunate.

5) Damn I am glad this is happening now because I have to be healthy for KELLY AND CAMELS!!!!!

Home Coming

I am transfixed on coming home. Not in an anticipating the goat cheese get me out of here sort of way, not even in the least. But more in a way that home is constantly chillin’ in the crevices of my mind, as if I need a reminder that there is a world outside the four streets that create the rectangle of S. As if I need a reminder that there is a world beyond, that I will, in 6 short months, return to. As if I need all the mental preparation I can get.

I’m bracing myself. Because there is not one rock solid thing in my life right now. I’ve got absolutely no guarantees. Sure, you’re thinking to yourself that nothing in life guaranteed. But I’m willing to bet that you’ve got at least a job, university, apartment with determined apartment-mates, roommate who may or may not be moving out with a day’s notice, boyfriend, girlfriend, one friend who will not be leaving your continent in the next couple of months, family member on the same side of the world, or semblance of a concrete life plan.

I have none of these things.

And it occurs to be that I may also have none of these things when I return to the bright eyed and blurry world of Los Angeles. Because while I could be returning home to open arms and wonderful things, building and rebuilding in every direction, creating a solid happy sunny life for myself, I could also be fall into the dark abyss of southern California without a friend or job or village terrace.

Oh *%&. I somehow accidently and very mistakenly took this free spirit thing too far.

So here I am, building shanties in my heart instead of homes.