April 11, 2022 | Leave a comment Deep lessons and physical exertion dialed to 100 percent. Money concerns me less than ever. Tossed from one immigration official to the next, I chug the water I had just filled in my bottle as I am forced to go through security again while boarding has already begun, and sprint toward my Kathmandu flight in thrice-repaired chappals. Monthly Mood: Does Leaving India Exist One of the great mysteries of India, and the greatest of all its joys, is the tender warmth of the lowest paid. The man wasn’t angling for a tip: most of the men who used the washroom didn’t give one. He was simply a kind man, in a place of essential requirement, giving a genuinely kind smile, one human being to another. It’s that kindness, from the deepest well of the Indian heart, that’s the true flag of the nation, and the connection that brings you back to India again and again, or holds you there forever. —Gregory David Roberts, The Mountain Shadow Hindi rests, loaded, on the tip of my tongue. Saudades grip my throat, for I had flowed with the non-systematic system, the least explicable way of life, for not a day less than TWO YEARS + THREE MONTHS • दो साल + तीन महीने May 2020. The exit stamp does exist but only if you’re fucking belligerent. Mine stains bright red, alone on its own passport page. 22 March 2022. When I close the navy booklet, it kisses the stamp on the opposing page: entering via Delhi, 23 December 2019. There is such a difference between the woman who received that entry stamp and the one who finally crossed outside the bounds of Indian borders into neutral airport space. March 2020. Over the span of years, illnesses, relationships, and six cross-country train rides, it began to dawn on me that all this was still my first time to India. The joke of being unable to leave India turned into honest alarm. Relevant read: COVID-19 • Less Privileged and More Centered In The Universe Gonna miss these desi days a latte, March 2022 When free visa extensions stopped and I was demanded for a “confirmed flight ticket with in October month period” in large, bold, underlined and italicized font, I was unaware that there were even flights. I was considered a “TIME BOUND MATTER“ and they demanded the police to squeeze that ticket out of me “within two days positively.” For over a year we were assured that once commercial flights start again, we had a 30-day grace period to get out of the country. From a hidden apple orchard village up in the Indian mountains, I was still under this impression. Luckily the Manikaran popo had a human heart. He just had me write a letter explaining why I couldn’t satisfy B I U demands. The unkind experience so disrupted my spiritual wellness that I decided to take no more action until I had both the physical ability and serious desire to leave. It was autumn and my gut felt March 2022. Not before, not after. I applied for an exit permit a month in advance. They took their sweet time. When something did happen, the fine that had been 500 rupees became 62,020. A price so beyond reasonable and above anyone else’s penalty that it cost me another two weeks to obtain the psychological capacity to accept it. A last ditch effort to show up in person at the Mumbai immigration office, determined to pay and walk out with the fanculo document in my hands, got me nothing except a migraine that had me writhing for hours after the fact. Pain soaked me through. I could only sit with it, through it, become it. It wasn’t so much him that I longed to visit, but rather the version of myself that he brought out in me—the one who was outlandish and bold, the wild, self-destructive woman who would do anything. —Cheryl Strayed, cut from Wild The arrival of March had brought with it a sudden and severe loss of patience. I didn’t want to be hot anymore. My soap melted. The fridges and panini presses all over town stopped working because too many people cranked on the AC. I was tired of overstaying my visa. Paying at the office was not an option. Unbelievable. Online, I kept receiving an error at the final step of the payment. Never had I wanted so desperately to rid myself of $815 and India wasn’t letting me. It had come down to a matter of software and clicks. I attempted the payment for the rest of the day, required to check a disclaimer saying the payment was nonrefundable and doesn’t guarantee I’ll get the desired results, and to wait at least half an hour in between attempts. I managed to contain my nausea every time a screen was again lit before my face. The following day was a public holiday. Trying to go to an internet cafe only resulted in receiving leery looks from civilians blasted with powdered Holi colors, many on their way to or from the liquor store, and others unquestionably under the potent influence of bhang lassis. Seeing as it was my third Holi in India, the mild mockery as I waited forever for my Ola cab (like Uber) didn’t bother me that much. I conceded to asking my friend’s mother to help me complete the payment. Thus the financial transaction of getting me out of this country involved my father in Florida, my friend in California, his mother in Delhi, and myself. Only in India would someone follow your Whatsapp guidance from across the subcontinent and log in to your glitching immigration account and make a five-digit payment for you before you’ve advanced them for it, and tell you to not worry at all. Only in India would someone who you briefly met 24 hours ago offer you full access to her high-end flat while she herself is absent. Fourteen floors up, aircon in every room, central Mumbai, a smashing sunset view, full security at the gate, spotless pool, daily visits from the domestic helper who scrubs the dishes and floors, no power outages, doorstep delivery groceries, luxury to the extent that my butt sat on a toilet seat crafted. of. stone. It’s not the first time I had full-use of a place way beyond my budget while the beautiful Indian hostess was in a different state. Keys are simply left somewhere or with someone, et voilà, first-class accommodation without asking. Two years here taught me to not question the angels of India. Suspense hung over me for the rest of Holi. At 10am the following morning I received the exit permit I put in so much towards getting. Within the hour I booked tickets and filled out the health declaration for the 58th country of my life. At the time of this post’s publication, I ought to be plodding through the sun and snow of Nepal’s Annapurna Circuit. 131 famous kilometers of mountain trails that eluded me for the last three years. Day 1504 21 March 2022 मुंबई Mumbai, India It is my last morning on Indian soil; tomorrow I’ll be encapsulated in airports. I go to the Subko outlet that I prefer. It’s closed today. With a frustrated huff I book another non-AC cab for the cafe’s main location, crawling back north through Monday morning Mumbai traffic. Traveling is one long road of saudades. Saudades for the Hindi-printed storefronts that actually just read words from English vocabulary, like “monarch” and “life insurance” and “beauty parlor.” For the women with pretty cows and a spread of cow picnic items for passersby to purchase, feed to the gentle creature, and receive its bovine blessings. For the men with rake-thin limbs, blackened by the March-starts-summer sun, walking by to deliver a tray of muffins or looking over their shoulder, clutching a precious green coconut in one hand and plastic straw in the other. I watch the last description through India’s cleanest glass window, from within the shelter of blasting AC and upper class Mumbaiker company. I ask myself if it’s a sin to order a $4.50 latte in a country where that national rate of chai is 14 cents and a fresh vegetarian lunch, half a dollar. If it’s okay to smash French pastries at double the price they’d be in France, in a land where taking an air-conditioned cab across the equivalent of New York City only takes $3 from my pocket. The answer is not no. But since October I’ve laid down the law: I approve of everything I do. The last of 820 consecutive days. This girl just wants to enjoy. A respite, no matter how brief, from calculating every rupee, converting it to dollars, and subtracting that from her daily allowance. Y sí. Sí las montanas me apetecen. El frío. Las nevadas. El sol de la altitud en mi puta cara. Mango curd with a proper layer of fat, Indian dairy has no match. Day 1507 24 March 2022 पोखरा Pokhara, Nepal why is itthat when the story endswe begin to feel all of it —rupi kaur, the sun and her flowers Not being embraced by the arms of India is a full-system shock. The vastness, gone. The flamboyance of food and capacity for more and more and more, memories. On my third day I still don’t know how to react. I feel defensive when the table next to me brings up travel in India and the difficulties for women backpackers. What I hear sounds inaccurate and perhaps always will. Country 58 is so cozy, simple, small. Poor, although I refrain from dumping pity upon a perfectly proud and proficient people. I am more comfortable speaking Hindi than English to the local residents. I am down to living in scraps of Karnatakan lungyis and shrunken hemp shirts. My heart skips a pump when I see a UP license plate on a van, denoting the Uttar Pradesh state of India. India retaught me how to feel. To attend to feelings and messages from my body, rather than the myths created by the mind. Attachment to $ has seen a drastic drop with the events of the last week. No amount of money is worth breaking my body. I always earn back what goes out of my pocket, ten times over. 62,020₹ was handed over with nothing but laughter, gratitude, and relief. India, not being a part of you makes me tremble. You will always be a part of me. obsessions: grated yam stovetop oatssubkoindian angels watching over meproject sankalp (90+)vegan waythriftingblack diamond trail ergo corkcork yoga matscroissantsmaking myself a french pressviews over lake fewamerino woolspirulina on sliced tomatoespour over brewsindiansnepalirupi kaurrumicoloringmatcha greenhimalayan black-lored titsmynasbarn swallow familiesgregory david roberts best of internet: this already-linked-above cut from wild Current book: The Mountain Shadow, Gregory David Roberts Bird of the month: White-browed bulbul Source: Sivaguru Noopuran, eBird. A plain bird that takes a second look to realize you’re staring at a new species to add to your list. A lovely bulbul that doesn’t look like the other bulbuls. Chosen in honor of being the last bird I identified on the subcontinent. Mumbai moments. Newbie in Nepal— yogic lizzies, pancake Sunday, $2.50 snuggly room, 25¢ bus rides, Thakali cuisine. Patriarchy. Zoom for a crow is riding a wild Goan pig around your front yard, cawing at the world while the swine eats the leftovers of a coconut. Previous Monthly Mood: Where’s The Love Explore my full archive of India and Monthly Moods. Learn more about this round-the-world solo trip.