In Hindi there is a word that means ‘the one which’ or ‘the one who.’ The word is “wallah.” It’s an all purpose word, used for everything from people to stores to objects. “Lal-wallah” means “the red one.” (Lal means red.) So, I might say to a shopkeeper, “show me the lal-wallah.” Mobile-wallah is the dude who sells mobile phones. Rickshaw wallah is the one who drives a rickshaw. My favorite, “ooper wallah,” means the one which is above (wherever you are standing/pointing/sitting). ‘Jaipur-wallah bus’ means the bus that is going to Jaipur. It’s both a vague and useful word.
Lately I’ve felt like the “emotional breakdown wallah.” Although my Hindi teacher insists I can’t use it that way; according to him ‘wallah’ indicates a semi-permanent state (i.e. one is always a rickshaw driver, but one is not always having emotional breakdowns). However, being on the edge of tears is starting to seem somewhat permanent. I’m not the only one, at least, so I’m not alone. But yesterday I did have a noticeable breakdown. One of the other students took pity on me and took me to her apartment where we watched TV shows in English, ate cookies, and lay on the cold, cold floor under the cold, cold air conditioning. It was really nice. I’m actually thinking of seeing if I can move into the same complex–it’s a really really nice host family, and it’s only a few blocks from campus (unlike my current place, which is 2 miles from campus), and the rooms are new, and CLEAN, and the bathrooms don’t stink, and the family is very warm and inviting. My family is polite but so far it feels very cold, the bathroom is not so good (I’m being polite), there’s no AC, I don’t like having to travel so far, and most importantly, I don’t like living alone without any students to commiserate with. At this other place there are four other students. So, I’m looking into it.
Today we took a field trip to the old city, the part of Jaipur that was built hundreds of years ago. We took our teacher Anita-ji with us (or rather, she took us there), who is an awesome bargainer and talked to all the shopkeepers for us. We weren’t there for very long, but we did go shopping and see some neat things. Shopping was really the purpose of the field trip, and I bought quite a bit: earrings for me, bangles for some cute little nieces of mine, some books about India (in English), a cute embroidered bag, some pillowcases that are perfect for my house in Madison, and the most ridiculous shoes I’ve ever owned. The shoe-wallah was the most interesting one. He hand-makes all the shoes, and there is no left or right (they’re all the same). I can’t upload pictures yet, but mine look something like these:
He was so impressed that we were learning Hindi. He was very excited and talking a mile a minute. It was quite comical, this rather large Indian man poking his head out of a cubicle-sized store stuffed full of Rajasthani shoes, speaking jaldi jaldi Hindi (‘very fast Hindi’; when Indians want to emphasize a word they say it twice), offering shoes and discounts to all the students, with a smile from here to New Delhi.
The market where the shoe-wallah was smelled of incense. It seemed that every shopkeeper was burning his own. There was no sewage in the street, no livestock, so the smell of urine was thankfully absent, though there was definitely dirt and poverty. The street children come up to us and gently grab us on the arm, make a motion like they are eating, and cup their hands to ask for money, ostensibly for food. Their hair is almost always matted and laced with little flecks of dirt that must be an inescapable part of street life, and their faces haven’t been washed in days. It’s sad. But if we give them any money we will VERY QUICKLY be swamped with children begging, so we don’t. But it hurts. We also have had both women and men (always old) banging on our car windows begging for money. They look so sad, and so skinny, and so fragile. While we were at the bazar a wandering ascetic, a saddhu, came up to us and held out his bucket, which was covered in orange flowers, as are many things here, to ask for money. His face was painted and he had a long white kurta on. It seems a universal theme here, that Westerners are asked for money. And no wonder. Compared to most of the people here, we all have far more than they will ever have.
We then went to a mall (!) for lunch, where almost all of us had terrible Chinese food for lunch. I think we just wanted a break from Indian food. But the best part? WE HAD ICE CREAM CONES. SCOOPED FROM A TUB OF ICE CREAM. Until now, the only ice cream we’ve been able to find has been the pre-packaged kind, where you buy a cone with the ice cream and nuts or whatever all wrapped in paper in a freezer. It’ll suffice in a pinch, but to me it’s a vastly inferior product, much like using a tricycle to bike to work. That said, the scooped ice cream was not the same as in America. I can’t say it was worse, either, just…different. Maybe the cows here come in different flavors? In any case, ICE CREAM. YAY.
So, yesterday I went to the tailor’s (with the aforementioned completely awesome Anita-ji) and got all measured for my new “suits” which are not American-style suits but rather something called a ’salwar kameez.’ They look like this:
But of course you can get them in hundreds of colors and styles. Generally you buy the fabric in a store and then take it to the tailor’s. Sometimes you can buy ones that are ready-made (that’s what I’m wearing today). They all come with these beautiful long scarves called “dupattas,” which are so pretty I’ve been seduced into buying the whole outfit just because of the dupatta. I’m having a number of suits made, so as soon as they’re done I’ll post pictures of them. They are beautiful: one is light blue, one is dark red and tan, one is purple/magenta (of course) and one is maroon and green (not as odd as it sounds). The one I’m wearing today is orange and red, and very ’sundar’ (beautiful).
That’s probably all the news from today. I’m somewhat trying to avoid going home, as I know it’ll be lonely, and though my host family said there was internet access at their house (they promised a computer room), the computer doesn’t actually work, so there is no internet. And we all know that the internet keeps loneliness at bay.
So, thank you all for your emails. I cry when I read them, I miss you all so much. Although can stop telling me that it’s a chilly 57 degrees with a “hot” high of 87. That just makes me jealous. Right now it’s 92 degrees, and the heat index routinely shows that it feels like it’s well above 100. I sweat constantly, everyone does, especially because people dress relatively conservatively and are generally covered from neck to toe, except for their forearms. My bedroom never gets below 80 degrees, and most nights it stays around 84. At the end of every day I am sticky, exhausted, covered in bug spray and sunscreen, dehydrated, and lonely. But at least I am going to have some awesome, awesome clothes to take home. Right?
Last night they asked what his proposal was like, and I told them, and they sort of swooned. One has already had an arranged marriage, one probably will have one. I wanted to ask them what’s it’s like, marrying someone you don’t really know, but there wasn’t time. Still, it seems a big question to me. What is it like to sit there and promise your whole life to someone you’ve never met?
