Mixed and Mixing Up

I haven't been updating nearly as frequently as I'd like but I have some very good reasons *cough*excuses*cough* for this deficit: 1) I've been sick, 2) I'm trying desperately to find housing in DC and 3) I'm in India.

But anyways, I realized I'll only be here for another meager week and a half so I'd best get writing while the writing's good (or at the very least, vaguely recollectable). That said, it's easiest to start with the recent past so I'll tell you about Mumbai and then I'll get to Delhi.

I'm staying at the Tata Institute of Social Sciences (TISS) in Mumbai, one of the leading research institutes for the social sciences in India today. When I originally prepared a Fulbright proposal to directly investigate yoga's benefits to alcoholic individuals, it was with one Dr. Das, a tremendously resourceful and generous professor here at TISS. Having studied and advised the World Health Organization on improving medical and psychiatric care for public health issues such as substance abuse and HIV/AIDs throughout India, he seemed like the perfect mentor. Obviously the Fulbright fell through, but he's been a great help for my current research, facilitating meetings with leading addiction treatment centers here in Mumbai.

Getting here was a relief but to explain just why, I guess I'll have to delve into Delhi. Readers, seatbelts please.

Delhi. Delhi was hard. The heat was hotter than I knew India got, the roads dustier, the clamor more uproarious. The entire city's a construction site for the Commonwealth Games and Pahargang is in ruin. Whole city blocks were being steadily dismantled by seemingly everyone in sight: young men beat the snot out of buildings and aunties used the remnants to further bludgeon larger remnants. Spider-legged, sinewy uncles hoisted off-white burlap sacks (full of mortar and thrice their weight) off to God knows where. Bricks rained and wires hung, flustered Indian men substitute for the orange cones or yellow tape we Westerners might look out for. And it's a damned good thing they were there to scare whitefolk out of the street because I saw no shortage of bricks barely miss their targets, Makers missing their made. A terrible, black lake of dirt, feces and filth inexplicably grew from the middle of the main road, forcing passers-by to hop bricks and outcropped steps, narrowly avoiding the foulest of foot-plunges.

It was, shall we say, overwhelming. I forget the sort of mental toughness living a single day in India can demand and being thrown into the thick of it quite knocked the air from me. I must assume some responsibility as I picked the arguably worst place to readjust to Indian living. But having procured my kurta pyjamas, scarf, and rugged, open-toed sandals, I found myself far more prepared for the elements. The rubble made city-walking precarious and the beating, merciless sun made ten minutes outside feel like a day's work. Still I was grateful to be edging my way around the commotion rather than required to pitch in with the work. The food made quick work of me, but I submitted and eased my way around curries like worksites and soon found that I could get by well enough. My room? A swamp at best, dreary and cavernous. But there's always that silver lining: what's dark and dreary can be cool and refreshing, even if the pillows smell a bit like feet.

My work was exhausting, constant but fruitful, as I've discussed a bit already. My meetings were primarily with the workers and directors of various rehab centers, of whom I am amazed, indebted and inspired. One interview per day felt like two days' work after the hours of stinging, rickshaw-riding winds each trip would demand. But my caretakers were so kind that I scarcely left an interview without sitting down to eat. "Guests are like gods," I was reminded more than once. I was also happy to reunite with old friends who temporarily bent space and time by taking me to a fancy Indian mall (which, I'm convinced, was actually a mall located somewhere in America, emptied of its inhabitants and replaced with Indian tourists, buying smart saris and flaky samosas - I'm on to you both, Vipin and Simpi).

Still, I rushed and hurried, bustling my way through and out of Delhi with the hope that Mumbai held respite. And indeed, TISS has been a lovely place to recharge, relax and remember just where I am. I've taken ample pictures of the campus (which I'll upload soon - really, I will) which reminds me so much of HCU (University of Hyderabad) that it felt like home at first sight. Palm trees and foliage adorn the campus, drawing lovely, green contrast to Delhi's metal and brick. Fresh air and bird song replace dust and constant buzzsaw, fresh-faced, friendly students in place of hawking wallas. And my room, oh, my room. Private bathroom and hot shower? FLATSCREEN TV and WORKING computer?! Pinch me I'm dreaming (wait, no, let it go on). Yes, I did get sick again, and yes, had to scare a monkey on out of my room. But what a place to lie around ill: a place where you can step outside at noon without breaking out into a fervent, all-out sweat. I've also made some nice new friends here through lazy, afternoon-long conversations held over lunch, chai, and dinner. One I'll be meeting in Bangalore quite soon, the last city of my yatra, a veritable Mecca for yoga, I'm told.

My work here has shifted towards institutions of yoga to learn more of the practice and its known benefits. Recently I visited the Yoga Institute of Mumbai, where I met my Indian grandmother. And by that I mean a woman precisely my grandmother in manner and appearance, whose warm, welcoming spirit captured what South India means to me. There I met with a yoga instructor and recovered addict who told me of his struggles and the new life he's found through yoga practice. May I just say as a researcher: ask and ye shall receive. As I said before, there's so much here. So much telling me this is just the beginning.

Tomorrow I fly to Hyderabad to visit my home from spring of last year. And what a joyous homecoming I'm sure it will be. More to come - especially those pictures!