Mr. India does not save the break-down-wallah. Plus: the most adventurous ice cream ever.

We just finished watching “Mr. India.” It’s an 80’s Bollywood flick for which I was entirely unprepared emotionally. Here’s why:

I told my host family last night that I think I should change houses to one that’s closer (figuring that’s something they can’t fix, so it’ll be a reason that is sufficiently impersonal). They offer to hire me a rickshaw to take me wherever I want to go. Then I say that I’m lonely and want to be with my friends. The host mother says she’ll come and talk to me every day and I can see my friends on weekends. She made me breakfast this morning and promised to cut off the crusts of the bread tomorrow when she saw that I didn’t eat them right away. They’re being so nice, and I feel bad, because they don’t want me to leave.

So, I was feeling bad. And awkward. And then I lost my rent money this morning. So I had to unpack all of my stuff, which I had packed in preparation of moving today, to find it. Then the clothes I was going to wear, the new ones from the tailor, are all too small. I can’t even get them on. (Argh.) Plus my dirty clothes aren’t back from the dhobi yet. So, this morning I was clothes-less, with my stuff strewn about, and hungry, with no time for breakfast. So the mom offers to drive me (this is at about 8:40) so that I can eat and be there at 9. Well, she took forever getting ready and we didn’t leave the house until 9:05. So I was quite late for class, and walked in well after the lesson was underway. Awkward.

Then my listening comprehension class did not go well at all. Listening comprehension is my weakest point, and everyone seemes better at it than me. Without complaining too much, I’ll just say that class brought me just to the edge of tears. So, stressful day so far. THEN we watch Mr. India, which I thought was a nice movie about a man who can turn himself invisible and saves the world. Turns out it has some pretty graphic parts, or at least emotionally taxing, like people jumping into a vat of acid, a little girl being blown up by a terrorist bomb, and small children being beaten. Not to mention the fistfights and when the children are held over the acid pit (but not dropped in). I felt like I was going to crack. WHY does everything seem to be so emotionally difficult here?

There are some good things. Last night my host family and I went out with some of their family for ice cream. It was the craziest ice cream ever. First, we drive halfway across town, passing many ice cream spots along the way. What is so good about the place we are going to, I wonder? On the way, I see a foot-less man sitting in the middle of the road, begging. I see people in their tents on the sidewalk, where they have all of their pots, handicrafts, whatever they’re selling, and their life’s belongings under a tarp. I see cows, and pigs, and smell human waste and burnt diesel fuel. I see rickshaw-wallahs stretched out to sleep in their rickshaws for the night.  I see many groups of men hudled along the street, playing games and talking. There are few women out, and those that are seem to be with family. It’s hot; easily in the low 90’s. And humid.

We arrive at the ice cream place and I am not kidding, this section of the street smells like pure jasmine. WTF? Inside, there are at least 80 people in this ice cream shop. Most of them young, most talking a mile a minute, the place is PACKED and when I finally get a look at the choices, there are enough ice cream dishes to fill up an entire wall. I estimated at least 250 options, in English thank goodness or I would have been lost. As it was, my host mother ordered for me (also thank goodness). We took the order ticket to the back of the ice cream shop to have the ice cream boys make it. These boys were HUSTLING. I mean, literally sprinting across the floor and up the stairs to keep the ice cream cones coming. They were so fast I wanted to leave them a tip, but I wasn’t sure of the protocol on that one. My host mother pushed me towards the counter and said, “Here, you give this to them. They’ll fill it faster if you’re holding it.”

I blinked.

“Should I smile, too?” I asked jokingly.

“Yes!” she said.

So 20 minutes later we finally got our ice cream. I tried batting my eyelashes but I don’t think it helped the ice cream come any faster (oh, the things I’ll do for ice cream). Again, the ice cream was good, but different. So, I’ll count that as success, especially as it’s rich creamy goodness was pretty satisfying. But damn, I have never seen so many people in one ice cream parlor. Nor have I seen such sights along the way.

So, I’m a bit near the edge of breakdown-wallah today. Emotionally drained, not wanting to undertake the ordeal of moving, not wanting to offend my host family, and really really wanting to go home to Matthew and Madison and our house and our garden, or at least not to be stuck here for another 2.5 months. Alas, I have little choice in the matter, and one thing that India quickly teaches you is to acept the things you cannot change. I’m still learning it. I’m a stubborn one. My (new) host-sister (is that what you call her?) had an arranged marriage, is in the army, and will have to give up her daughter for a year so that she can fulfill her duties. Very little of this seems to have been in her control, and yet it seems gut-wrenching to me. At the same time, she seems very happy. …?

I dunno how this country works. Somehow it does. But oh, how I’m longing for places with things that are arranged neatly on shelves, with the price clearly marked, and the quality clearly known, and no one hovering over me to make me offers if I buy it. I’m longing for a place that doesn’t smell like the worst side of humankind, that doesn’t have enormous piles of garbage, that doesn’t have the extremes of poverty set against India’s most upper-class riches. I’m realizing how much I don’t notice how easy life is in Madison. Everything is comfortable. I know where the store is, I’m capable of getting there on my own, and I have the language ability to how to ask for what I want. I take all of this for granted. Missing any one of these things makes life so much more difficult. I don’t know how immigrants do it, adjust to our way of life, especially if they don’t know the language. How do they find toothpaste in the store? Which bottle is for cleaning? Where do they buy clothes? What is this “toilet-paper” stuff, and how do Americans use it?

I”m exhausted just from living. Just from making my daily life. And honestly, I just want to go home.