when the rains come without warning, there’s nothing but drumming on corrugated metal roofs, rivulets running off sidewalks, instantaneous mud puddles under a suddenly dark sky.
from my red plastic chair in the office, the rain is silhouetted against a few block printed chadars on the balcony opposite ours. the door is flung wide open to catch a passing breeze, and the scent of clean rain washes away all the grit and sweat of mumbai. mausiji brings around steaming cups of chai, and i slather on tea tree oil to repel mosquitos.
i am having a lot of desi diaspora feels these days. i think it’s my ungrammatical hindi and my inability to eat red chilis whole. i’m speaking more hindi here than i’ve ever spoken in my life — no surprise, really, as i’ve never really spoken hindi before in my life — but it’s reassuring to know that i can actually get by in this language that’s all too familiar in my head and all too foreign for my tongue. i don’t know any tenses beyond a simple present and past, though, so talking about anything more complicated than “please turn right, my gate is just over the bridge” or “do you have rajma-chaval, i need some comfort food please” is annoyingly difficult. i know how it should sound in my head, i can have whole mental conversations about maternal health programs and theories of behavior change in silent hindi, but often it comes out with verb endings i know i’ve made up. of course, when we go to meet the women running health committees in the slums and it’s all marathi, i’m completely lost.
i suppose this is why they call us abcds. american born confused desi. i saw a sign on an office building down the street the other day that said “nri: not really indian.” when i told my mother G wanted to visit me in india because it’s important, she asked, “but why? you’re not indian.” she’s right, of course, and so was the nri sign.
and yet. the guard at city palace in jaipur asked me why i was standing in the foreigner’s ticket line; when i said i was from the US, he laughed and told me i looked indian enough, go get an indian ticket. i nearly hugged him. i love when the uber drivers respond to me in hindi because it means my accent isn’t so bad that they can immediately tell that english was my first language. maybe they’re humoring me, but i’ll take it.
this is such a silly example, but. i love shopping here. i never like shopping. the clothes fit better and the colors work with my skin and my home and the bold block-printed dabu-dyed patterns speak to me. i feel like myself with these textiles.
on that note — stay tuned for a post all about textiles & block printing from Bagru, Rajasthan!