In all honesty, I was not thrilled when I learned my placement location. Even when I initially thought it was Ahmedabad, I was shallowly put off by perceptions of difficulty in finding non-vegetarian food. Yet as I have come to find, Bhavnagar is very special. In the corner of the Saurashtra region, it’s not commonly traveled to. Knowing that I get to experience it so fully in a way few people not originally from there get to has helped me find the special moments in my day-to-day life.
The best part of my day is usually the bike ride home at sunset. Bhavnagar’s skies can be a sweet pale pink, crossing through a deep lavender, a wispy cloud providing counterbalance to the gradient from the blues. It’s a particular kind of beauty that I cannot get tired of – only pulled away by the adrenaline rush of an imminent crash – whether by a two-wheeler, motorcycle, a particularly gregarious cow, or a much too gregarious rickshaw driver.
The fear doesn’t always set in after a near-miss. It doesn’t always set in after a quick roll over some rocks that you are sure would result in a puncture. For me, it sets in when my feet begin to slip. Soles of my feet against dusty sandal rubber – a strange sweaty mud forms. Somehow slicker than the chain oil or the soap on my tile floors, it calls forth a fear unlike any other – that I might lose control and have no one else to blame it on. At least with the other drivers, I can yell at them and release my adrenaline after the danger has passed.
There’s a shortcut I take on the way home. Were I to go the way I came in the morning, I would be treated to a traffic jam full of cars that all believe they are skinnier than they are, all honking for the same foot-wide gap between two other vehicles that refuse to believe they won’t fit. My shortcut is special. It begins with a – woo! – as I go down the hill and over the bridge. Next, I pass by a half-built complex that is held together by bamboo, bricks, and sheer belief. Each day, it’s higher and higher. Hopefully, it will be done by the time I leave. I pass the cows. They sit and gossip all day, chewing their cud and making for a more pleasant traffic jam. I have to get off and walk around at this point, making sure my bicycle wheel
doesn’t hit the baby calves clamoring for their mothers’ attention. Sometimes they preen and pose for me instead, knowing that I can’t resist their dewy eyes. From there on, I go through a couple societies, passing some people who my routine can’t go without. The grandmother who has shown me her beautiful embroidery, who asks where I’ve been if I go on vacation. The child whose first steps I witnessed, followed by her first fall onto a pile of soft rubble. The kids who bike faster than I do and the kids who motorbike faster than I ever will. I hit the main road again, much more smoothly paved, and cruise down my street and park.
My favorite way to end a day as the nights get hotter and hotter is with an ice gola, India’s version of a snow cone. The gola-wala has since become tired of me asking for the most sour flavor – the usuals are too sweet for me – so he always has it ready for me. Half kala khatta (black currant) and half kaccha aam (raw mango). Bright green and dark purple combine to make the most delicious flavor mix not technically on the market. The only thing missing is what I bring from home, the secret ingredient: an entire large lime, generously squeezed on top to the dismay of onlookers (bahut khatta!!), perfecting the treat. It’s a special type of paradise, chatting with the gola-wala as traffic passes by, feeling the metal spoon cold against my tongue. After I finish the mound, I flip a coin on whether I drink the d
regs. Sometimes I argue on whether I really need more sugar in my diet. Sometimes I argue that this little bit of cold sugar is what is keeping me going in the heat. I tend to beat myself in arguments often – totally rigged. On the way back home, I study the stains that the syrup left, maybe on my feet, hopefully not on my pants or shirt, but always on my tongue. My coworkers caution me against eating them daily, fearing that I’ll “catch a cold”. As the sun continues to beat down even after sunset, as my sweat stains grow, as my sandal tan line grows dark, that’s advice I am more and more willing to ignore.
The last stop before I hit my bed is grabbing my last minute vegetables. The sabzi-market I go to is not very large. It still overwhelms me. There’s only five-ish stalls. I say ish because the baskets and stands spill over each other, not cleanly separated. It’s bookended by a vendor who only has metal utensils (never the wooden ones I desperately need for my single pan, a non-stick clunker whose handle keeps falling off) and a fruit vendor who was able to finesse me green grapes before the season for my New Year’s traditions and avocados to show my coworkers the wonders of guacamole (they were not impressed). I’m the worst haggler – I fork over my rupees, walk away with too many kilos of limes, and fall asleep as soon as I hit my pillow. Another long day.
Bhavnagar is so different from Chicago. But, it is my new home. There’s a phrase that one of my coworkers told me, that the city is famous for three things, gaye, ganda, ganthiya. Its cows, its ganthiya snack, and crazy people. I am proud to call myself a Bhavnagari Ganda – a Bhavnagari crazy person.
