Take A Moment

Dear friend,


This morning, I had breakfast with three local men and a Russian woman, drank Baileys at 10:00 a.m. and was offered cocaine. A typical morning for me, really.

I am in Goa, a treasure in the south of India, where I fall asleep to the sound of the crashing waves and live with soft grains of sand between my small toes. It is my fifth day here; I've two to go. On Saturday, I will leave to Delhi, and on Sunday, I will be home. As joyous as I feel to reunite with my family, snuggle my little Louie, sleep in my own bed and eat a burger and some chocolate mousse cake (the two requests I have asked of my mother upon my arrival), I will miss India, for more reasons than one, and in a greater sense than I would have imagined. On my last night in this country, I will write a lengthy letter to provide further insight into my mind and the depths of this experience, but today, on this lovely, warm day, with the sun on my back and the breeze caressing my naked face, I would like to write about this very moment, and what I have learned about the power of a moment.

Since I can remember, I have looked ahead. As a young girl, I dreamed of being older. I counted the days until my birthday, passed my time watching those passing by me in their twenties, thirties, forties. I watched how they laughed, watched how beautiful they were, envied their seemingly perfect lives, and wished profoundly that this, too, could be the way of my life. I thought of marriage and my own children, divorce, and who my second husband would be. With an imagination stretching far beyond my own body, I enjoyed my youth, but I was never quite present.

Now, as a young woman soon reaching my twenties, I have come to certain conclusions. This trip to India, generally, has taught me many a valuable lesson. My time in Goa, specifically, has taught me a lesson I needed desperately to understand.

I have been alone these past six weeks, in the sense that I was not in the constant company of another, in the sense that I was in a room alone, in the sense that I traveled by myself. Yet, when I was in Bodhgaya, I didn't just have myself as company. For four weeks, another volunteer, Cédric, joined the project and became a friend. The school director, Brajesh, was always a phone call or a few feet away, and the children, the beloved children, were the source of my smile my every day there. When in my room, I was joined by the sound of the hundreds of people outside my window honking and beeping their way through the roads, silence only falling with the sun; and when walking through the streets, I was joined by strangers whose curiosity guided their footsteps towards me and whose questions I answered as often as I took a breath.

I was alone, but very much not so.

The Anahata Retreat, where I have been living these past few days, is an ideal location for a honeymoon, a romantic holiday, a place to celebrate one another and the view. The rooms are in private wooden beach shacks, each in the shape of an octagon, adorned with a beautiful, lavish bed in the center, four doors that open outwards to a personal balcony that hugs the entirety of the hut, and a catalogue-worthy bathroom and rain shower (gifting me my first hot shower in six weeks). There are pairs of everything: two bathrobes, two bath towels, four pillows. There is one of me. I have been asked repeatedly by the staff and guests if I am alone, if I will be joined by my family this evening, and why a girl is in a place like this by herself? I tell them I was in Bihar for six weeks and thought it would be nice to see a different part of India in my last few days here; I'm asked if I feel lonely, and I don't hesitate to shake my head, no. I am happy to be truly, completely, unashamedly alone--even when I'm surrounded by couples. I suppose I've not given myself the opportunity to be away, detached, disconnected from all for a week before, and I didn't realize the gravity of this. It is so important to allow yourself some time to think, and only think. Peacefully. Graciously.

I've spent many hours thinking about my current life: who I am now, who are the people in my life who I love, who are the people in my life who love me? I think of what I'd like to become, and how far I have come from who I once was.

A tremendous development for myself, over the past few weeks, I have not only accepted, but begun to love my body; my face without makeup; my powerful thighs; my delicate chest. I look in the mirror and there is no longer any hatred--there is only peace, and care. For the first time in a long time, I am taking care of myself.

I'm proud of myself for having sat on a plane to a world so alien from my own. I'm proud of myself for adjusting and molding to entirely different ways in an entirely different culture. I'm proud of myself for holding on when, at times, my trip was difficult. I'm proud of myself for embracing the unknown, trusting my judgments, adventuring, and taking something from the experience. I'm honored, and humbled, to have met the kids.

I'm growing up, and I feel younger and freer than I did in my youth.

I've found the things that matter to me in this life, and I've found they are simple. I've found that my opinion of myself, and the opinion of me held by those I love, are the only opinions I take to heart. Once so paralyzed by the thoughts of others, I've released myself from that heavy, suffocating pressure. I've disconnected from those who harmed me; I wish them well always, but I've let go.
I've found I care far, far more about my brain and my heart than I do about my exterior. Not so long ago I felt what I looked like was all that mattered to others. I dyed my hair blonde, wore makeup so heavy the sink water would turn a wheel of colors upon its removal, wore tight clothing and took on the role of a girl who simply was not me. Insecure, and only ever seen from a shallow perspective, I believed people were only interested in how I looked, and cared not to come close enough to see who I was. I no longer put any weight on what someone thinks of my appearance. My hair is now my natural color, I wear very little makeup, and my clothes are light. If I wish to dress up, it is only because I wish to. If you compliment my look, I will smile slightly, but please know, to me, this is an empty compliment. If you search my mind and find there is something far more interesting there than there is about the hair that falls around it, you will find a smile far more genuine, one emerging from within.

I've found there is no shame in being happy with who you are.

Each day in India has given me something to think about. I hope, when I go home, I do not get lost in the pressures of tomorrow. I hope I am still able to live completely in the today, as I have been for weeks, and that I'll maintain this state of mind. Should I find myself drifting, I must only remember to take a moment to be by myself and have the liberty to think.

I encourage you to do the same.


A warm hug,


Natalia


P.S. A beach in India is not required for this exercise--I just happen to be here.


P.P.S. No, I did not accept the offer to do cocaine so, no, I was not high when I wrote this. I merely mentioned this morning as another memory for the books.

Let Me Tell You About Dev

Dear friend,


I realize I have not written in several days. My first week in India was one in which I had difficulty finding a sensible routine. My days consisted of going to sleep very late so as to speak to my friends in California and in New York City, waking up at seven in the morning, rushing to have breakfast before being picked up and taken to the school, then returning from my lessons completely exhausted, falling into deep, accidental naps each time, then waking up, taking care of a few important matters, having dinner, and repeating the cycle.

I have since repaired the way I manage my time and my days, so now, on this foggy Saturday afternoon, I am writing to tell you of everything I have wanted to tell you. I hope you can forgive me for my absence.

So, the thing is, I have so much to say that I do not really know where on earth to start. Perhaps I will begin by telling you of the school, and of the kids I am so lucky to know and spend time with.

Mondays through Fridays, I go to the school in the small village, a fifteen minute drive from where I am staying, and I teach from the hours of 9:30 in the morning until 12:30 in the afternoon. I realize three hours of work a day doesn't sound too strenuous, however...it is! The school is very loosely organized, so each day I walk through the blue iron door into the school I am met with a surprise, as some days I teach the eldest class, the sixteen year olds, and other days, I teach the eight year olds. Of course, I prepare a lesson plan for each day, but I can't teach the little ones the same thing I teach the teens! The younger ones are also wilder, and the classes are far greater in size, so I've yet found a way to capture their attention for the full time allotted to me with them. As there is no strict schedule at the school, some of my classes are twenty minutes long, whilst other classes are two hours long. Really, truly, every day I walk into the unknown. This is difficult as a teacher, but I don't want to speak so much about the teaching aspect of being at the school as much as I want to speak about some of the individual kids I've met.

Though of course I like all of my students, there are a few I have gotten to know quite well over the past couple of weeks, as they have been the most open with me; and I have become, unsurprisingly, quite attached to these kids.

There is one boy in particular, whom I will refer to as Dev, who has caught my attention. The first day I taught at the school, in each class, I stood in front of the black chalkboard, wrote my name, and told the kids they could ask me absolutely any question to which they desired the answer. Most of the kids asked me where I was from, how many brothers and sisters I have (the number of siblings one has is a very important subject here in India), the names of my mother and father, as well as of my step-father after I explained that my parents are divorced, and topics similar to these.

The first question Dev asked me is if I have a boyfriend. Of course, I laughed and told him I don't, and continued to answer a few more questions he and the others had for me. I knew then that Dev was funny and a bit cheeky, but what I couldn't have known from that first interaction was how intelligent and hopeful he is. I also couldn't have perceived the profound care I would develop for him. Since my first day, he has approached me often and spoken to me about his life, his dreams, and his reality. We speak after class, we speak during lunch, and I hope to speak to him as regularly in the remaining time I have here in India.

I consider Dev my friend, and as anyone who knows me well enough, if you are my friend, you are very important to me. I have suffered in the past from caring so much about certain people, but I know I don't live my life in the gray when it comes to emotions, and I've accepted this. What I can't seem to accept, however, is the idea of leaving here in five weeks and never helping Dev reach his full potential or achieve his dream.

In certain parts of India, girls, at the age of eighteen, and boys, at the age of twenty-one, will face marrying someone they do not know and do not love. In small, remote villages, kids marry at much younger ages. I'm completely fascinated with the idea of arranged marriage, as well as with what locals think of the system, and have learned a great deal since being here on how it works.

The funny thing is, at the moment, I don't believe in marriage, period. This is a position I have had for many months now, and maybe it will change in the future: maybe I'm just a sour, single girl who imagines her future with an impressive selection of cats and dogs so therefore doesn't think about the possibility of a husband because, you know, #foreveralone. No, I'm just kidding, I'm perfectly happy being single. But as of today, and as of yesterday, and the day before, and five months before that day, I have not believed in marriage, not because I have been affected by it in any negative way, but because I simply don't think one has to involve the law in love. I think there is something so utterly unromantic about signing a paper that legally binds one to the person signing with one. Suddenly one's relationship does not exist purely because one wants to be with one another, but now, since one's involved the government, one is OBLIGED to be with one another (a lot of "one's," I know). The idea, to me, seems a bit imprisoning, and it is no wonder many relationships falter during a marriage.

I also believe people are constantly changing. I see it in myself, I see it in my friends, in my family, in public figures, in everyone. I am not the same person I was a year ago; not by any means. And I know, when I am twenty-five, I will not be who I am now. At a perfect moment in time, two people might meet and feel as though they will be each other's exact match for the entirety of their lives but, really, they might find they individually grow to become someone else, and, as a result, grow apart. It's a natural progression, and one I expect, one I have lived and understood; but at least the previously "perfect" pair can say they, once, truly loved one another.

That's not the case here.

Here, parents will meet with another family, decide if their children are a successful match, and introduce the two just minutes before the ceremony that will declare them family. There is no love. There is no way of knowing if you will ever love your partner. There is no divorce system. There is only a pre-determined future.

Prior to arriving in India, I knew arranged marriage existed, and I understood what it meant; but when you paste an idea with a face that you now know and care about, the subject becomes far, far more personal.

I asked Dev what his dream is. He told me he wants to be properly educated, and he wants to visit Europe and the United States. He knows there is a world beyond Bodhgaya, and he desperately wants to see it and be a part of it. I desperately want to help him with this. My heart broke when he told me he knew he most likely never would visit a country outside of India because his family simply does not have the money, and by the time he will have money of his own, he will also have a wife and a family of his own to take care of, a fact he is not so enthused by; he knows this future is not too far from today.

I know I cannot save the world. I can do my part by recycling (people, RECYCLE), by being educated on what is going on in the world (my thoughts on the results of the election will be a separate post. I do not have a collected-enough mind at the moment to write anything other than a few swears and wet my keyboard with tears of despair while I do so), and perhaps by helping these kids with their English. I cannot change the world as a whole, but I want to offer a change in Dev's life. So much so that I simply can't stop thinking about it.

This being said, I don't want you to have the impression, after this very long post, that Dev is unhappy, or that anyone at the school, or even in town, for that matter, is unhappy. The kids' faces illuminate from the inside, and I have never stumbled upon a group of people more cheerful than the children at the school. Their smiles are wide, their eyes are kind, and their excitement for life is genuine. It is refreshing to see such natural joy, and I feel happier here, with them, than I have felt in a while.

I have learned a lot thus far in my short time in India, and I will express this newly-gained knowledge in various posts. This post has been a bit of a jumble of many different things, but my mind has been a bit of a jumble lately, and as I find ways to untangle my brain, I will write to you.

Until then, I hope you feel inspired to find the things in your life that matter the most to you. Do something for yourself today. Do something for someone else as well.

Also, recycle.


All the best,


Natalia

Crickets in the Night (and in my bathroom)

Dear friend,


I am currently sitting on my bed, a slightly worn but very comfortable blanket adorned with red flowers and a mustard-yellow frame directly beneath me, one leg perpendicular to the bed frame, the other propped upwards so as I can rest my cheek on my knee. The fan above me is blowing quite rapidly, allowing just enough air to make the beige curtains dance and my slightly poofy hair stir. It is 11:38 P.M. in Bodhgaya, India, and the usually-hectic, noisy, and crowded streets, tonight, are empty, quiet, and peaceful.

This will be my second night in India. I arrived yesterday afternoon, my flight having landed at approximately 1:20 P.M., and stayed in my room at the Welcome Guest House the great majority of the day. I unpacked my three cotton trousers and a total of five blouses and t-shirts, my sunset-orange and grey scarf, my twenty-dollar, navy Victoria shoes, my abundance of toiletries, the books I bought for the children, and my camera, and placed them all in the two-shelved bookcase in my room. I Skyped my parents and fell asleep shortly afterwards.

The room is quaint, with mellowed-yellow walls, a small brown window overlooking the streets and some trees, a mirror, a table, two single beds divided by a low night stand, and a small bathroom I share with a cricket, consisting of a toilet, a sink, and a shower head directly centered between them both. I learned earlier today that there is no hot water; the hot water is simply slightly less biting than the cold water. I may have released an accidental squeal at the touch of the water to my skin this morning, however, tonight, I will suppress the surprise. At this time of night, there is only silence.

I have been eagerly anticipating this trip for the past five weeks, for it was five weeks ago that I met Jan, and five weeks ago that he presented to me this incredible and humbling opportunity. Jan, a young man whose passions include traveling, the environment, people, and holistic education, is the founder of a non-government organization by the name of One Action. One Action has projects around the world, three of which are in India, one of which is here in Bodhgaya. When conversing with Jan, I expressed my deep desire to see the world as a contributor rather than a mere observer, my absolute love for children, and my concerns for this ailing planet. Jan told me of a project in a small, remote, poor village in India in which there is a local school that teaches three hundred kids from the ages of three to sixteen. His project there includes paying the teachers a monthly salary, growing a garden of trees to supply clean, fresh air to the children, and providing a meal once a day, every day, for the children, after a young girl fainted in his arms from starvation. Jan told me the school was in desperate need of an English teacher who was fluent in the tongue, and invited me to volunteer there, should I be interested. I applied for my visa, made hasty progress on my university application to schools in the U.K., researched the culture and ways of India--as a woman and as a general being--and bought my ticket six days prior to the day I left my home in Barcelona. This simple, sweet room and this colorful, chaotic town is my home for the next seven weeks, and I will share my every breathtaking, heartbreaking, life-changing, adventurous and joyous moments with you; my every thought, my every interaction, my every picture, and my every story.



Welcome to India.