Today is my last day in India! Unbelievable, I can’t really fathom that I’m not going to be living in this crazy country anymore. Six months is a really long time, and I’m really happy to be going home to see everyone. And to be able to open my mouth in the shower, be able to eat meat and not worry about getting sick or my hair falling out from not eating meat, not have to carry toilet paper in my back pocket everywhere, and not have to wipe off the cups in restaurants with my shirt sleeve. Still, it’s going to be a real reverse culture-shock for me, and I’m probably going to be really bored and cheap for a while in the transition period. I was planning a day of just running errands, but I, inadvertantly, ended up covering all bases of life in Delhi. I got up early and had Indian breakfast with chai. Then I took a shower, and packed everything for my departure tonight. My bags are a real piece of work; actually, I’m afraid they’re going to burst at the seams. Good luck to any security personnel who decide to go through my luggage. I put them down at the Janpath Guest House lobby and paid $30 for three nights, unfortunately. Oh well. Then I grabbed all the things (toiletries and clothes and pens) that I don’t need anymore, and took them to New Delhi Station, where I put them on the platform, waiting to see what would happen to them. To my surprise, no one touched my things. Instead, they asked why I would put my stuff down, and encouraged me to take them. Weird, but Indians don’t really steal like Americans would. I think this is because while Americans always look up to those richer than them and are jealous and frustrated, India has so many poor people that there’s no way you can’t help but be thankful for what you have. Indians’ main status symbol is reputation as well as money, so they look down on those lower than them and therefore feel better about their own lives. That makes sense, considering India contains wealthy people, as well as a third of the world’s poor. I ended up handing my stuff to some rag-pickers sitting on the tracks, who grabbed the bag and ran, like vultures, bickering among themselves for who got the lip balm an shirts. After that, I had to fultull a requirement; eating, one last time, at the one and only, Fiesta. I had a lunch thali, laccha paratha, and ice cream. Not surprisingly, I was one of only four customers. I told the guys I was leaving and then tipped them 200 Rs, which was like winning the lottery. After that, I headed over to the good old EAP study center and collected Indian exit forms, went on the internet, and bid farewell to Mohan and beloved Vijay. They were both huddled around the space heater, while I was in my t-shirt. Unfortunately, because of packing issues, I’m wearing a t-shirt with a huge Indian flag, and writing saying, ‘I [Heart] India’. Inadvertently, that’s the most cliché thing I could think of. I spent the rest of the daylight milling around Old Delhi. I figured it wouldn’t hurt my karma to hit up all the temples one last time. So, I went to the Gurudwara, the Hindu temple, the Jain temple, and the Christian church. Then I made my way through the tiny corridors packed with people, rickshaws, pushcarts, and cars, to Meena Bazaar and Jami Masjid, teeming with people and their goats (apparently there was some kind of goat fair). I had to get rid of some change, so I gave money to some beggars for the first time ever. They were ungrateful, and hardly noticed me dropping coins into their hands (which were filled with coins already). I felt cheated because they’re usually supposed to give you a blessing. I was going to enter the mosque, but the guards yelled at me to pay 200 Rs for the camera, for which I yelled at them because I’ve been there so many times with my camera before, and if I was Indian, do you think they’d charge me? No. What, I don’t look Indian in my ‘I Heart India’ t-shirt? I took the Metro and a rickshaw past floodlit India Gate and Rajpath for the last time, on the way to the tailor, Tanzeb, in Khan Market. I also picked up my journal outsourcing work and then my suits, which looked stellar. Tanzeb tried to guilt me into paying more money, but I’m sorry; you charge me $200 a suit in India and I ain’t tipping a penny. I had two dinners; one at the one and only Saravana Bhavan, and the other at Haldiram’s in Chandni Chowk. Both were excellent, and good compliments to the other. It was a good way to end the culinary odyssey of India. I took the Metro and rickshaw, again, this time to Delhi University, to say ‘goodbye’ to DK Misra, to whom I outsourced my DU papers. We had tea and ended up chatting. Then I took the Metro for the last time, to Connaught Place. I’m really going to miss the voice of the Delhi Metro, saying, “The next station is Civil Lines. Doors will open on the left. Please mind the gap. Keep left while de-boarding the trains at station”. I love how Microsoft Word GrammarCheck identifies the previous sentence as erroneous. I got all my bags and caught a cab to Indira Gandhi International Airport, for my 24+ hour flight home to the First World! The terminal was filled with only two types of people; white tourists and businessmen, and rich Punjabis in turbans, speaking English. The ride to the airport was my last time seeing the streets of India, and we almost got into an accident; typical. This was because the fog was horrible. We couldn’t see more than ten feet ahead. And they expect to fly a plane like this? I know they have automated computers and whatever, but would you feel comfortable flying with a blindfolded or drunk pilot, because it’s pretty much the same thing. The flight was at 3:30am, basically catering to London rather than Delhi, since it reaches the UK at 7am. Even though I got to the airport three hours early, I needed every minute. It was frantic and an awful experience. I first waited in a massive line for checked luggage security check, and of course, my bags were each 20 pounds over the 70-pound limit. I asked about excess baggage, which would have cost over $500. They basically told me to make them lighter and come back. So, I had to sit down with all my bags in the middle of the terminal floor, destroying the masterpiece in packing that I had created. Is it wrong that I wondered if I could just outsource my packing, and pay someone to do it for me? Honestly, it was a nightmare. I threw my stuff everywhere, and got yelled at for it. I had to toss all my unused toiletries. It was nerve-racking, and I got all sweaty and dirty, right before 24+ hours of flight/layover time. I finally reorganized everything and waited in the huge line again, and turns out my bags were each two pounds overweight. The heartless souls showed no remorse, and made me cut it down to 70 pounds, the strict limit. After beating myself up (and nearly the entire British Airways staff), my bags were each under the limit by 0.5 pounds, thank God. My carry-on felt like an anvil, though. Oh, but it didn’t end there. In ticketing, they tried to charge me for the date change my mom made and paid for. Moreover, they told me my carry-on was too big for the plane. And in addition, they said that because technically my flight was on the morning of December 20 (and I got to India June 19), I was in India for six months +1 day. Therefore, I would be unable to leave the country. After completely losing my mind and temper, and completely making my rage and fury known, they pretty much let me go (since they realized they were wrong). Indian immigration and airport security let me go, without even mentioning anything besides, “Have a good trip”. They really don’t care. I waited in the British Airways terminal, which sucked because I was sitting across from a European couple who were picking lint out of each others’ dreadlocks. Also, since there was nothing but a Nescafe machine and a dirty bathroom, I still have 500 Rs that I won’t be able to get rid of. The pane was late (yes, not a single plane in India of mine has been punctual), and the flight attendants were old and snappy (they yelled at me for using the bathroom during nonexistent turbulence, and they’re a far cry from the other aesthetically-pleasing other European or Asian female stewardesses). Plus, they didn’t have the good movies that they advertised, available, and they’re not on-demand, like with other carriers. Moreover, there was only one meal for the 10-hour flight to London. Whovever told me British Airways was the best, most luxurious, and most customer-service oriented, honestly, must only fly Spice Jet, Southwest, or America West. Let me be frank; British Airways is probably the worst value and least enjoyable experience of any flight I’ve ever taken (And I take a fair amount of both international and domestic flights). But the best part? It gets worse. Read on…
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