The other day, I got a text from a school acquaintance asking after my fall schedule. I replied, and the inquirer made the discovery I think she wanted to find, namely that she and I would likely be in the same literature seminar. She was enthusiastic about the commonality because I think she had been worried about where to sit. Or more accurately, who to sit with.
Now I can finally go on the self-indulgent spree that I have been looking forward to. Basically, this is about me doing an all encompassing spiel on my thought space. To bring brevity into the entire thing, I am just going to copy and paste a paragraph I wrote and use it to provide structure. There, high school English lit, I learned something after all.
As I write this, I am waiting for my flight from Guwahati to New Delhi. Due to a slight goof up, I will be in New Delhi for a day, and then finally shall reach Srinagar, on the hills surrounding the Kashmir Valley, where I shall spend the remainder of my break.
Today, our plans were scuppered for a meeting with the local Operation Smile volunteers, because it was too hot. Now, you might laugh at me for being a pansy, but it was really hot. So hot that the government declared a school holiday for the rest of the week, fearing for the safety of the kids. So instead, today was a free day in our schedule, which is already something that we are improvising.
So we decided that we would get a first person view of the entire process, without being chaperoned.
Yesterday consisted of us running around Guwahati, in the sweltering heat of high noon, going through a maze of side streets, and side side streets, purchasing supplies for the current mission and the center.
As I write this, I am almost dead from exhaustion. Actually, scratch that. I am almost dead from the heat. Today was the first day of the project proper, and the honeymoon period has ended, somewhat has ended. But then, I am starting from the middle. I hate when I do that.
So I took two flights, and reached Guwahati today from Srinagar (it's a town in the Himalays), where I met my parents. It is a bucolic city, kind of like a conglomerate of villages that just managed to become a city somehow.
As I was driving from Borjahar Airport to my hotel, which my partner Mark told me was ghetto, I could not help but think about when I was growing up. Guwahati resembles Jammu, the town I spent 18 very happy years growing up in. Except it looks like Jammu from 15 years ago.