Many Good-byes, One Hello

23:21

16 August 2010

Today was my last day at the Office. Tonight is my last night in Bangalroe. Tomorrow is my last ‘morrow in India.

Last week proved to be a fairly mellow work week. Our office is simply trying to regain its bearings after all of the construction that had relentlessly been taking place for the previous three and a half weeks Originally, I was scheduled to leave Bangalore two days ago; however, I decided to extend my stay here by a couple of days. I am glad I did.

I continued my minor food preparation roll through this afternoon. While I was in the kitchen minding some business, I had the surprise of a lifetime. None other than Miss Rejeshawari and her mother, Chandra, entered with luminous eyes, beaming smiles, and firm embraces.

On July 5, 2010, Rejeshawari’s father pass away. I was devastated to learn of her loss. At the time, she was my closest acquaintance in the Office. She was the one who first greeted me when I arrived and from that point onward she was my shadow. I felt as if she was my little sister. One of my sourest regrets is that I cancelled a visit to her home on the weekend of her father’s death in order to make that second trip to Mumbai to meet with SPARC. Traditionally in India, when a close relative dies, a period of 41 days is observed during which time the family grieves and does not leave the house or engage is social activities. I had assumed that our paths would never cross again, but chance works in mysterious ways.

Today seemed to pass by with a single bat of the eye. I spent this time savoring all of the faces, expressions, mannerisms, smiles, laughs, and voices of the Mahila Milan and the Federation members, now my colleagues and friends.

Last days and final good-byes are always tough.

In the late afternoon, the ladies decided to make me a “True Indian”. Chandra braided my hair. Some one supplied a string of jasmine flowers. Aunty Malayamma fastened bangles around my wrists. My face was made into the Indian version of ‘pin the tail on the donkey’ as each girl applied, adjusted, and reapplied stick-on Bindis to my forehead.

Photos were taken by the hundreds. Songs were sung. Gifts were exchanged. Tears fell in showers. Goodbyes were said. Wishes of health and happiness were expressed. Hugs and handshakes were exchanged. Departures are too personal and too emotional to describe properly, so suffice this description to include the deepest heart-throbs known to the human soul.

On the way back to the Convent, I swung by a lavish bakery and picked up the most attractive cake on display, for this was also my last evening with the Hostel girls. . . All I can say is that I am glad that Sister Florin, the warden, was off on personal business for the night. The party that my five closest friends and I had was shrill and maybe a little unruly.

I arrived with the fancy little cake. They sprung about in panic and mentioned that they had just ordered a cake from the same French bakery. A rushed, anxious call was placed to cancel the order. Goofy and fun snaps were taken. Laughter was had. Pleadings for my not to leave. Huge hugs. Tears. More hugs. Another laugh. A shadow of me sneaking out the back door because I was out past curfew. . .

That is it.

As I sit here in my room that is disheveled due to abandoned packing efforts, the end of this experience that awaits me tomorrow doesn’t seem real. I cannot grasp that in a couple of hours I will be on an airplane back to America. It doesn’t seem real. It doesn’t seem possible. It doesn’t seem fair.