It's been three weeks in Assam now. Enough time to settle in and get immune to the fluctuating weather, the food, the people. But not quite enough to make me immune to the incredible cuteness of the three kittens on campus.
Among the first things that I worry about when I go to a new place is my name. Seems like a small matter, but if you really think about it, you realise newcomers with an easy name are far more approachable than those with long, exotic-sounding, difficult-to-pronounce ones (yay exchange program orientations!). So I'm always afraid when I'm introducing myself- torn between whether to introduce myself as 'Arundhati' or 'Aru'- because while the latter is easy to pronounce, people quickly figure it's a nickname and ask for your real one. And if, after that, they are unable to pronounce it, it just gets embarrassing for them. So usually the way to go is to give my full name, and when they struggle with trying to say it, crack a joke about stupid long names, and insist on being called Aru. The problem there begins when people think it an assault on their ego, and insist on calling you by the name they cannot quite pronounce! And it's downhill from there. They'll see you, can't remember your name, avoid making eye-contact and keep walking by. And it just gets harder and harder to communicate. Makes for some hilarious anecdotes later though.
Sure enough, my name provided an anecdote that's already done the rounds at Aagor multiple times over. Though not of the exact nature I feared. When they heard I was coming, a call was made to a local staff person to come and pick me up 'Delhi se ek student aa rahi hai' (A student is coming from Delhi). And since my name was so difficult to pronounce, it was decided they'd hold up a placard with my name at the railway station. And since it was so long, it was read out to them in two parts 'Arun', 'Dhati'. What resulted was two guys at the railway station with a placard that read 'Arun Dhati from New Delhi', looking for a guy who'd descend from the AC compartment. Apparently, every young guy who got out with a backpack on that platform of the New Bongaigaon station that day was welcomed with a placard being shoved into his face. And so when the girl who was supposed to get picked up descended from her non-AC coach, it was no wonder that the tiny platform was deserted, with no one in sight except ogling vendors.
Thankfully, a call was made, and they realised the small matter of gender had been confused. Much reflective of the Hindi they speak- where the 'ling' gets confused over and over. So I did get picked up and dropped off safely, but the confusion provided many a laugh over tea in the days that followed.
Thanks to that small anecdote however, most people on campus now know my name. Most have learnt how to say 'Arundhati' fairly well, and the others are happy with 'Aru' (or 'Aw-roh', as the Assamese say it). Rohimal, one of the guys who came to pick me up, and I ended up bonding fabulously as a result the hilarious sequence of events. Humour, as it often does, brought me closer to everyone, made me more accessible, gave us some common ground.
As with the name, the other things also seem to have sorted themselves out and found a way of comfortably falling in place. The food, that I was quite apprehensive about, has started appealing to my taste-buds. And I've by now figured what does not agree with my tastes, and filtered it out of my diet. I now know jute leaves are bitter, pumpkin leaves have an acquired taste and ferns are just weird. The mounds of rice on my plate are also getting bigger by the day, as my appetite steadily grows. Nothing to compare with the mountains on everyone else's plates, of course, but there's a perceptible increase. Also, having started out being the slowest eater (I was never so conscious of my pace of consumption), I have managed to slowly get to the point where people don't have to sit around and wait for me to finish eating (incredibly awkward, that). Mini victories these, but very satisfying in their own small way.
Life also seems to have settled into somewhat of a routine. Earlier, I was terrified about the fact that I'd have to bathe in ice cold water every morning (as all the other weavers do on campus). Now, I've figured out a way of working around that. I insist on walking back from the Aagor office to the campus every evening after finishing work (a good two km walk, I think), thus ensuring we're sweaty enough to brave the coldness of the water by the time we get back. It works well enough.
And then of course there are the rains. They pour down with an unapologetic abandon, making everything around seem even greener, and very mucky! I have given up trying to keep my sandals respectably clean, and now they are an unrecognizable shade of grey (from a very royal blue, mind you). I've gotten used to my clothes perpetually feeling damp, my face forever oily, the electricity being frequently gone. I have figured out enough Bodo to be able to answer to the only two questions people seem to have- 'How are you?', and 'Have you eaten?'. I have feasted on the amazing library on campus for hours on end- though it always leaves me wanting more. I have gotten used to having meals with a cat and her three babies constantly rubbing up against me and begging me for food. I've even become immune to the shock of the sudden sting of insects of weird shapes and sizes feeding on my blood while I'm obliviously working/sleeping/reading. It's been three weeks, but it's starting to feel like I've been herefor quite a while.
And while all this starts to feel like home, one sudden stimulus- a song, a smell, an email, a visual, a fleeting memory- jolts me back into what feels like a previous lifetime. Or one of the several different lives I seem to have lead. It makes me wonder who I really am- the girl who enjoys bathing in a river, eating desi bananas while riding to distant, beautiful villages on a bicycle, and sleeping like a log by ten; or the girl who walks around Manhattan all day, and ends up having a late dinner at a cute roadside French cafe, marveling over how good ricotta cheese tastes with a side salad and talking about going to Nationals in debate to talk about the virtues of selflessness; or the girl who walks Delhi streets in a kurta with a jhola hung across it, changing buses, metros, cycle rickshaws, attending rock concerts while hogging on gol guppas and chole bhaturas from the local thallas. Which of them is really me? Each of them given me the same amount of joy, if not the same kind. They each feel equally comfortable. And equally uncomfortable.
It feels like a schizophrenic existence this, and bothers me for several idle afternoons. Then I remember I'm the South Indian, brought up in Gujarat, studying in Delhi, who speaks Marathi fluently. Who am I kidding? I belong everywhere and nowhere. All at once. And one afternoon of reflecting on it wasn't going to give me any answers. It's going to be a lifelong struggle.
