Summer in South Asia

I departed Bangalore on a cool, misty morning in late June. It was approximately seven o’clock when I, along with my parents and sister—who arrived in India during the last week of my internship—stepped into an ebony colored taxi, our physically exhausted bodies brimming with the catharsis that newly formed memories induce. As we careened down a slumbering highway, which was empty expect for the occasional rickshaw or plastic bag, the sun peeked its nose over our shoulders and flashed…

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During my last week in Bangalore, a soft chill ran through the city, burrowing into my throat like a mischievous snake in a garden patch. Perhaps the change in weather—a sharp contrast to the temperate warmth that generally paces through the Garden City’s streets—was a symbol of the journey to come, one in which I must attempt to vaporize back into the world I knew before my fellowship experience. Or perhaps it was nature’s way of challenging me to absorb…

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As a college student, my perception of time is, for most of the year, measured in the following parameters: days left to study for an exam, minutes between classes, seconds more that I can sleep, and countless moments of laughter and euphoria with friends. We tend to speak of time as a tangible entity, something that we can easily grab by the shoulders and steer in the direction of our dreams. Yet, time is also a sorcerer of sorts, a…

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In my previous blog posts, I’ve written about my initial impressions in India. I’ve discussed my fascination with the concept of borders—physical as well as psychological ones—and the ways in which our minds often construct faulty comparisons as a means of overcoming the discomfort of difference. Since my previous posts, I have started my work with Swasti, a public health resource centre in my host city of Bangalore, and learned even more; this time, not about erratic driving habits, but…

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I arrive in Bangalore, India in the early morning of Wednesday, May 17. As I finish exchanging my United States dollars for a colorful stack of Indian rupees—rays of purple, orange and white glimmer from the notes clutched in my fist—I find myself overwhelmed by the tight hug of reality. This is it, I think as I step outside the airport into a thick wall of warmth and humidity. From New York to London to Mumbai to Bangalore, it has…

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Imagine that you are eight years old. It is your first day of third grade at your elementary school, and you are hopeful. As you step off the elevated steps of the sunshine-colored school bus, the stench of gasoline weaves into the crispness of the September air. The wind skirts to and fro, squeezing your shoulders tightly. Its soft grip guides you towards the front steps of the school, as if to say, maybe this will be the year. Inside…

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