30 hours and a Bucket List later --- But, I'm still not married

Thursday April 19 - Ahmedabad

The hustle to get packed for my quick, 7 days in India ends in a mad dash to log off at work, load the car, and kiss puppy girl on the nose a thousand times repeating "I love you and I'm gonna miss my puppy-do."  Like she knows what that means.

It takes 24 fairly  uneventful hours to get to into Mumbai and clear customs.  After four visits, I shouldn't be, but I'm simultaneously assaulted by heat and the scent of body odor mixed with incense.  Breathe it in, Manisha.  No one officially welcomes you to India but after that first breath, there's no need.

A long layover, a 90 minute delay on the tarmac, and a lack of drinking water some 6 hours after touching down in India, we finally see daylight again.  It's not my home, never was, but the familiarity of Ahmedabad rushes over me.  I turn around at a rush of noise to men saying "Uncle!  Uncle!"  They mean Jeff, my brother in law.  Indian men and women always refer to the fair as "auntie" and "uncle", but I forgot since the only fair person I've been to India with is my mom, some 26 years ago.   Well unless you count my sisters, but I guess I wouldn't say we're fair ; we aren't unless we're in India.  Here we just stand.  Not this time though, and I silently think I'm thankful to finally travel with someone else who is more interesting to gawk at.  Indians aren't know for, what we'd consider, tact.  Its part of their (our?) charm.

All of us agreed we need a quick breakfast, a workout (my challengers would be proud!), and a shower.  After, we head out to see Gandhi's house.  It's a beautiful property on the river, with a fabulous tribute to his life, his work, and is most places, his own words.  I find solace there, and many others must too, because kids are playing, men and women are sitting quietly, and some people are lounging with a book.  It's clear that it's a place where people can just stand still, and be.  If I ever found myself living in Ahmedabad, I can probably bet I'd spend a lot of time there just thinking.  In such a big busy city, it's a little sliver of peace.

Then we rush off to find Jeff some traditional clothes.  We have massive amounts of fun looking through hundreds of outfits.  The clerk was serious about his work, pulling plastic wrapped cloth down in handfuls and showing each article to Jeff.  As serious as he was, he had a slight smirk as he tried to figure out this "uncle"with red hair wearing a jhabba, with his harem of women playfully teasing and encouraging him.  He finally picked two-a bright blue and a cream.  Both are beautiful and actually, I think he looks pretty great.  I make sure to tell him he's a really good sport.

We visit some family, many I already know, and some others who are new to me.  I have the most wonderful experience of meeting Cusom Foi, my grandfather's niece, though she is more like his sister.  His mother, my great grandmother, died when Papa was 4.  His father died when he was 16, and so he was largely raised by his eldest brother and wife, Cusum Foi's parents.  Trying to communicate with her made me realize oe significant regret of my life.   While I understand Gujarati a little, I can't speak it.  Kusam Foi is an oracle, and I know she could tell me so much about Papa, but I can't get it out of her.  I've never been known to object to the idea of a Bucket List, but my first item on the one I just created: Learn Gujarati.  Soon.  Before it is too late.

Finally, its close to dinner time, and we have a party we're hosting --- well, Dad is anyway.  In full Indian dress, we trek down to the hotel where dinner is.  There are easily 50 people there, more probably, and I only recognize about dozen.  I can't make heads or tails of anyone, and I get introduced to everyone the way my dad is related.  It's not helpful, because if he introduced me the way I'm related, then I might have been able to keep it straight. Indian's have a name for every kind of relationship except cousin.  Cousins are brothers and sisters, and everyone here is a "cousin" at this point; to me, here in India though, some of them are aunts or uncles, fois and fais, kakas and kakis, and to many, I'm a sister.  Manisha Ben. I might even be someone else's foi or masse, but I guess I'm not sure.  Anyway, I try to keep up, but I spent a lot of time asking my sisters, "so wait who is that again?".  Bucket list item two: Fucking write this shit down.

As I meet people, I notice they ask Nina of her studies or her work, and they ask Sara about her upcoming nuptials.  They ask Jeff "what he does" which he happily answers.  But the only thing they want to know from me s "why aren't you married?"  It's a fair question, I guess, here in India, but I hate it regardless of my longitudinal placement in the world.   It doesn't help that I'm reeling from a breakup, but they don't know that.  So I smile and say "I guess I never thought about it much."  A bold-faced lie, of course, but I'm not about to get into the particulars of my failed significant otherhood with blood related strangers.  I notice a woman, who looks no older than 60, look up.  It was Kala Foi, who I find out later is actually pushing 80.  She has quiet wisdom and kind smile.  I can tell from her traditional white sari that she's a widow. She has stories too, I can tell, and I want to know them all.

On and on though, I was asked.  And my dad was asked.  Nearly 30 and single.   What's wrong with me right?  I let it roll of me, but it bugs me.  I'm about to get my MBA, I just got promoted -a big promotion-, and I own my home...doesn't anyone want to know about those things?  Jeff remarked finally that he couldn't believe that was a question people asked here.  Unfortunately, it's not just here.  Even Facebook wants to know my relationship status.

The night keeps on, and it's fun.  Not that many people are talking to us, and the four of us are stuck like glue to each other.  Its a language thing.  They feel foolish speaking English with Americans.  Its ok.  We feel foolish, too.  Dinner comes, and in an effort to ensure the allergy-plagued Americans have allergy-free food, the waiter brings us French fries.  Great.  An almost 30 Guju who isn't married and can't speak the language --- eating French fries.  That doesn't help, huh?  All we can do is laugh.

As we're winding down, I feel hands on my hair, lifting up the long ends that are growing out from the buzz cut.  Confused, I try to turn around as a perfect strangerlifts up my hair and then I realize.  My tattoo.  Manisha in Gujarati.  I'm a little panicked.  I don't know how this is going to go.  Indians don't get tattoos.

"It's in Gujarati.   You know right?"

I feel like being a smartass.  Of course I knew.  It's my own neck.  But I restrain  myself.  Then I see his eyes on my wrist.

"Ganesha!  And you know what else it is?"

I do know.  It's an ohm and is a design I picked because I wanted both.   My dad jumps in and says "She did this on her own."  For the first time, I might have detected a lack of disdain for my ink.  It's his history running down my spine, after all.

There is a crowd of people forming around me.  It is a sort of chaos when they realize I have tats.  One niece, about 14, looks horrified and excited all at the same time.  She asked if it hurt and I told her the truth.  Well, mostly.  What would she say if I told her I like the way it feels?  The shock that I'd willingly do something that hurt is all over her face. I guess they aren't so worried about my marital status now, huh?  I think that moment taught me the definition of gawking right then.

Kala Foi makes her way to me to say goodbye, and I think "this old woman must not know what to make of me." I raise my hands and bow with respect as tradition demands, and she whispers "If you haven't already, don't start thinking of marriage now.  I never even wanted to be married."

I smiled widely.  Third on my bucket list: Don't think too much about marriage anyway.