"Last Request"

Anticipating our 17 hour journey, I sat on the cramped coach bus with the window open allowing the fresh, Nepali air to push my lips up into the first smile I had in days.

The last two days of service were heartbreaking but my reactions to those two days differed dramatically. Last Friday, Emily and I printed pictures of ourselves with our students to give to them as parting gifts. As soon as the first picture was given, war began. Each girl wanted what every other had. We sat down and tried to find pictures for all but we just didn’t have the time or the funds to print over 400 pictures. But each girl loved us and wanted a printed picture with us. The pleads, “Auntie, photo!” from most of the girls ripped my heart as they watched me hand a picture to a select few. I was getting so upset, feeling as if I disappointed them all. That feeling was accurate, because they were disappointed. I felt that our friendship depended on these pictures. In a way it did. These girls rarely get pictures of themselves, especially not with us. And now we are leaving, and leaving some empty handed. I became angry with them that they would base our relationship over a picture.

Ripa understood. She read my face and shoved off the girls who were pestering us for photos. She took my head and held it as I walked to class to be attacked by yet another group of children itching for photos. Ripa’s dismissing stare stopped them in their tracks, allowing them to take notice of the sadness creeping over my face. Ripa and I stood at the balcony overlooking the courtyard and a dozen young girls surrounded us, watching us hold each other as water fell from the sky and our eyes. The courtyard formed mud puddles and our tears created ripples. It must be symbolic, for my tears will not simply fall – but will creat ripples, if not waves of change.

After singing songs for the last time, I basically chucked my pictures at my students and bolted out of there. It was getting too hard. Each time someone confronted me, I cried. The next day was entirely bland. Saturdays are always slow, so I anticipated my final day of service to be dreadfully slow. Some of the girls drew henna designs on my hands, arms and feet. I was covered in eucalyptus paste. Some girls would shed a few tears but my remained dormant. My eyes were tired, from insomnia and the frequent tears. Some of the girls gave us paintings and drawings with their names scribbled in crooked English.

In my final half hour, I was surrounded by my closest girls. It’s truly amazing how many different ways you can hug someone when you only have two arms. Both arms around two girls each, my hands holding the hand of another two girls. One girl sat between my legs who I gave loving squeezes with my thighs, one with her arms wrapped around my neck who I rubbed my head against her chest. Two girls held on my legs and I lightly rubbed my foot on their backs. When you need to, you can find so many ways to show love, no matter how swamped you are.

Brittany arrived, we were leaving to buy train tickets. I stood up, gave my final hugs and kisses, waved goodbye and walked away. It was anti-climatic. These amazing, passionate relationships had a bland, non-emotional ending. Ending. It ended. I was numb.

The day passed, walking my final steps in good ole’ Kolkata. I tried to absorb things that I know I wouldn’t see anytime soon: cows in the middle of road, man running around with jugs of water in dhotis, naked children bathing in the open water pumps. I remember them now, but I can’t feel their splashing water. All day I didn’t cry. I held it together. Saying goodbye to Hannah and Gracie, I was still holding strong. Then, turning to Mum Mum, she stood up and fell into my arms in a crying hysteria. She buried her face in my chest and I smelled the coconut oil in her hair. I lost it. I bawled. I love her.

Nepal was the perfect getaway: 17 hour bus rides, mid-day canoe trips tanning in the sun, paragliding with butterflies and thermals over the mountains with a lovely Frenchman, motor biking around narrow roads up the Himalayan foothills, day hikes through small towns with endless shopping, driving up Sarong Hill to arrive atop just in time to watch the sunset over the Annapurna Mountain Range, white water rafting in a river valley with drunk Nepalis, and watching five-hour long lightning storms on our balcony overlooking Nepal’s second largest lake. Aside from a vicious dog attack and uncomfortable hospital visits, we had a glorious time hanging out in Pokhara and with the Nepali people: good conversations of love on night buses and allowing us to sleep in their homes when we have no hotel. Us four little backpackers had our souls rejuvenated.

As I write this, I am sitting in a Rajasthani train station waiting for my final ride in India before I return home. Of course, the train is late which might make me miss my plane home. My eyes are red and puffy from saying goodbye to Brittany, Charlotte and Scott. My roommate, my twin, my buddy. They walked me to the main road to get a rickshaw. As I bargained for a ride, I turned and met my own tears and the painful thought that we would never be here, together, in this time of our lives again. Vowing to say “see you later,” I crawled into the back of the rickshaw and drove off. The driver saw me crying and attempted to tell me jokes to soothe my sadness. His kindness made my tears worse. As he dropped me off at the train station, he asked if I enjoyed my time in India. I looked him straight in the eye and told him: “I love India.”

And then I cried more.

Sitting in the train station, I know locals are staring at the little white girl with puffy red eyes but I can’t bring myself to appear composed. After the sadness died down, the numbness settled, and the stares diminished, my mind began its marathon. Running through the memories and lessons of four months in South Asia, I was overwhelmed. But of course that didn’t stop me from paddling back into my past travels, my childhood then leaping forward into my hopes and fears for my future. Basically, I was a mess.

Staring at the ground, I felt someone staring at me. I looked to my left and saw an old woman with short white hair wearing a red ekot sari. Our eyes met. Her skin was leathery from working in the sun all her life. Her eyes were curious. My eyes focused. She smiled with her lips. I returned the gesture. She smiled with her brown, rotting teeth. It was such simple moment, but seeing her decaying joyful smile, I giggled and smiled back with my teeth. She laughed and pinched her own cheeks, remarking on my cuteness. I raised my hands to her in worship.

I know; I’ll be back to India. It’s India; she drags you in, loving you with her decomposing grin. So, in my last hours on this visit to India, kicking the cockroaches away from my backpack, I gave my heart away.