Leaving is Hard

Meet Bhagwan, the man outside a Delhi post office who supplies packing materials and wraps packages. Here he and Henry are trying to make the suitcase I am sending home lighter.

It’s strange how quickly things can become familiar. After five months, my little apartment in Sacket, my neighborhood with the Sai Baba temple and the parks, my yoga class, my friends, my job, the Delhi traffic, north Indian food — all seemed normal, familiar, comfortable now.

As I prepared to go home, at first I didn’t experience the sense of overwhelm I expected about packing and closing up my affairs. After all, I hadn’t really shopped that much — had somehow never made it to most of the large markets in Delhi, had only had the tailor make me a couple of things, and yes, had received gifts like books and beautiful scarves and dupattas and saris, but not that many. I had focused on collecting experiences and friends, I thought proudly, somewhat virtuously, not clothing — not things.

But I was wrong. My sense of superiority over my friends who had had to send home boxes of clothes before they left Delhi vanished as I started packing. No way could I fit all my Indian treasures (turns out there really were a lot of clothes, after all, thanks to Fab India) in the two large suitcases I had originally brought which were stuffed to begin with.

I followed advice and tried to procure boxes (difficult!) and went to DHL to see about prices to ship large boxes back home (expensive!).

My patient and Hindi-speaking driver Henry took me to the local post office in Saket, where there was much discussion about how to mail the 30 kilo suitcase (about 66 pounds!) back to the U.S.

Post office and worker helping us.

The suitcase started off as more than 60 kilos, actually, and then I was made to extract the books (books which I didn’t think I could get back home, or digitally, and really, really needed . .. ). Then there was the question of the suitcase itself, and how that could be mailed (I had failed to find any large boxes).

Enter Bhagwan. Bhagwan paid for a spot on the sidewalk outside the post office, complete with his phone number, and in addition to selling mailing supplies, supplied the service of wrapping suitcases in muslin so they could be mailed.

Bhagwan wrapped my large suitcase and sewed it shut so it turned into a nice neat package.

That package was so neat, but leaving wasn’t. I cried in my yoga class, got misty-eyed as I thanked my colleagues at NLU Delhi, felt rushed and overwhelmed as I did yet more packing, wondered why I was bringing home so many Indian clothes (and books), had to leave a mysteriously large amount of my rental deposit with my landlady, and tried to find time to spend some last moments with the special friends I had made. A welcome diversion was touring with a friend from the U.S. before we headed off to a trek in Leh.

Coming full circle and having the last meal in Delhi at the wonderful south Indian Juggernaut, where I had first met fellow Fulbrighters in early January (from top left: Sanjeet, Charlotte, Beth, me, Yashvi, Abhay).

It was too early to really absorb the impact of all I had experienced in India and how that would shape my future. After an argument in the airport (I remember having very bad manners and yelling at the airline staff as I tried to check in for my flight, but for the life of me I can’t remember the problem — perhaps a problem with excess luggage?) I was off to Leh with my friend to be outside, trek, see yet another completely different part of India . . . . and reflect.