Quintessentially India.

If you're wondering, because you just might have been, the answer is "No." No - you have no control over anything when you're in India. No - you can not decide for yourself here. No - it doesn't matter how hard you try, things will just be the way they darn well feel like being. India, you see, is a sari-wearing, sugarcane stick-wielding dominatrix. She knows all of the rules, and I was so wrong when I thought I'd found the book of regulations. A couple weeks back, I was sure I had the riddle solved. If I simply maintained very, very long lists of even the most mundane of things to be accomplished, and read and re-read the list over the course of the day, then I could get things done, be efficient, beat India at her game. Oh. But she is very competitive.



By a Thursday, I was congratulating myself on almost finishing a report on Fair Trade. My lists conquered all! The next day I fell ill. My whole body ached, I felt faint, I didn't dare eat anything, and I was quickly brought over to the "hospital" where I was told that I would need a needle in my arm. To pump saline drips into my veins. Baptiste had succumbed to the treatment, and I had maintained some unsavory visions of his battered arm. I managed to escape this fate and found myself left alone in a white, cement room, the sort of space either made for crazy people, or a place that makes one crazy. I was left with water and no company. The monsoon kicked in and I could practically hear it pulverizing the road outside. I stared at the ceiling and then slept on my bed covered with thick brown leather, just glad that there wasn't a nurse popping in every 15 minutes to check my vitals and force feed me cheap jello pocked with fruit bits.



By Sunday, I was considering reverting back to my lists, but forgot to as I rushed to the office, in a hurry to send out a job application and prepare for a trip to the Araku Valley. My legs were still wobbly and once I made it to the office, the power went out. I sat staring bleakly out into the garden. The Director approached me.

"You be going to meeting at 11 am."

It was Sunday and the last thing I wanted to do was go to a meeting, one that would be entirely conducted in Tamil. I acquiesced, however, and while I thought I might be off to a meeting about eco-tourism, I instead found myself surrounded by 80 senior citizens, gathered for reasons that were never fully disclosed. I came in late and was asked to sit in a row with other speakers. Someone was giving a speech, and in hushed tones the Director tried introducing me to a little man.

"This is Phoebe."

"Veepee?"

"Phoebe."

"Bee-pee?"

"Phoebe."

"Pheevee?"

"PHOEBE."

"Oh."

I was prompted to approach the stage, where someone donned a bright red and yellow plaid towel over my shoulders to honor my presence. Upon returning to my seat, the little man said "Now you be giving speech. You be speaking about old peoples in America, the meetings they have together in your cultures." I couldn't believe it. How inconsiderate! I needed to give a speech at an event whose purpose was never made clear, and I was to discuss senior citizen gatherings in the US. I didn't think Bingo night would count, and couldn't seem to think of a single thing other than retirement communities that brought people in their 80's together. I smiled, albeit weakly, and slowly made my way over to the microphone. My "interpreter" coughed out about 20% of what I said, and people nodded quizzically as I chortled on about my work in Tiruchuli and the need to respect one's elders, all very boring and cliche. The Director spirited me out of the hall once I finished. Someone brought me lunch in the office and I looked at it with apprehension. Alone. I ate alone. And tried not to cry. The electricity was still out.



Later, as I prepared to finish packing, the monsoon hit. One of the staff members was directed to bring me to my room, but the only vehicle left in the driveway was a miniature truck of sorts, a glorified auto rickshaw, something that a kid misplaced from his Lego collection. The wheels spun in the mud, and the driver got out, barefoot, stepping into 6 inches of rain to shove the toy contraption into the road, where we chugged off at a not-so-inspiring pace to my room. We returned with my luggage for the trip, pulling into the now runny-nose of a driveway filled to the brim with rain.



I had promised that I wouldn't leave on my trip without handing over the Fair Trade report that I had so diligently been working on. I went to add the finishing touches, only to find that because of all previous power failures, only half of the document had been saved. I mouthed an expletive.



And later, as I was whisked off in the night train to Madras, preparing for yet another adventure , I wondered, "Does it really matter? these lists? these accomplishments?" I know India is competitive, and maybe I've been a sore loser. But I also think I've got it all wrong. Maybe, just maybe, India is a great friend, the one who doesn't tell me what I want to hear, the one with something closer to an answer than I've found for a very long while.