I left my home-away-from-home in August 2014. I took one last bite of stuffed naan at Hotel King’s Corner, enjoyed one last rickshaw ride down JLN Marg, and for one last time meandered the neighborhood that for two separate summers I had called home. As my plane landed in the Jaipur airport some 29 months later, I could barely contain my excitement. Well, that’s a bit of a lie: I had no control over it at all. I was blabbering to all my co-Fellows as we queued around Belt 2 about the hot summers and monsoon days I had spent studying Hindi in the Pink City.
One story followed another anecdote, and the words kept falling from my mouth as the belt began its slow circular route, conveying baggage that was much more desired by my audience than my own variety. After several minutes—I was in such a state, I’m wary to say exactly how many—I could feel the sighs of exhaustion forming in my listeners’ lungs. So, to save whatever face I had left, I closed my teeth on my tongue and allowed silence (i.e., normal conversation and the myriad sounds of a small airport in the morning) to fill the void. After accounting for everyone’s checked luggage, we rolled our bags out of the open exit doors into the capitol of Rajasthan: me in relative silence. My jaw was aching from the effort.
We quickly boarded our bus and, after a brief discussion with him about our rising level of hunger, our driver headed toward the city with promises of the perfect spot for a quick lunch filled with good Rajasthani fare. Fearing for my dental health and the onset of lockjaw, I eased the vice off my tongue ever so slightly. To my relief, the words didn’t come tumbling out as they had before. Word vomit averted, and suffering from a lack of sleep due to early morning travel, I placed my forehead against the cold glass, closing my eyes to help me meditate on being something I usually detest: quiet.
My experiment at normalcy lasted for what I estimate to be five blocks. I felt the bus start and stop twice. I wagered with myself that, surely, I could look and not talk. Surely, I could merely bear witness with no need for testimony. I have agency, I can choose how I act in public. Having convinced the judge that I would perform well on probation, I slowly opened my eyes, taking in all that the Pink City’s outskirts had to offer.
As the scenes of my summers began rolling by my window, I started to feel the pull. After four blocks, thoughts, memories, and anecdotes forced their way to the front of my mind and the tip of my tongue. I was fighting the words. Fighting being that annoying person I found it so easy to be.
At five blocks, and the first glimpse of the city proper, the force grew so strong that I couldn’t control it any longer. I had lost the battle. With one quick movement, I pulled my carry-on from beneath the seat in front of me. I began rummaging through my bag, elbow-deep into a mess of electronics and hastily-folded clothing. My fingers found what I wanted, and a sly smile spread across my face—satisfaction irrepressibly manifesting.
I yanked the tour-guide’s flag from its corner of my tote, hoisted it into the air, and cleared my throat so loudly that I am surprised permanent damage was not done to my vocal chords. I turned to the person sitting next to me. “You see this,” I said, pulling a laminated card out of my pocket. “I’m a government certified tour guide. I promise. This is not a fake. Now, what do you know about Jaipur?” I started flapping my little colorful flag, matching its tempo to my level of excitement. This little scene caused everyone in the bus to turn my way. Remembering an old used car salesman trick, I made eye-contact with everyone in my audience. I verified that I had everyone’s full attention, then slowly rose to my feet and made my way to the front of the bus.
I pulled the microphone from its holder, checked that it was hot, and smiled. People like it when you smile. “Good morning everyone! Welcome to Jaipur, my first, and dearest, home in India. The Pink City welcomes you. To get us started today, if you look to your right, you will see Jawahar Circle Garden. Every morning you can find uncles and aunties doing their morning exercises around what is claimed to be the largest traffic-circle-park in Asia! We are on JLN Marg, heading toward the city center. If you look to your right again, you will see a housing development concealed by a hospital and an office building. That is my former neighborhood. I lived there twice, you know.”
“Twice? Why twice?”
“Because who wouldn’t if given the chance? It was a beautiful home, and I would lounge on my balcony overlooking a small rectangle of park that the neighborhood kept beautiful and green. That’s still where I think of when I think of home in India. The meals, the talks, the long rides back from a night in the city. You know, living in the suburbs in India really allows for a lot of quality rickshaw-ride contemplation. It’s something that should be extolled more often when discussing urban sprawl.
“Moving on, as you can see, we have made it to Gandhi Circle. If you were to turn left here, you would arrive at AIIS-Jaipur, the center of Hindi learning for any serious American scholar.”
“Oh, so that’s where it is. I’ve always wondered. My friend was there while I was at AIIS in Lucknow.”
“Yep. It’s just right down the road and one street over. It’s truly the most important place of them all for me in Jaipur. It’s where I proved to myself that I can thrive thousands of miles away from home. It’s where I made lifelong friends. It’s where I went every day to do my favorite thing: to learn. I remember relishing every Hindi class, every listening activity, every time I asked a ridiculously complicated and unnecessary grammar question. Those two summers at AIIS are the best summers I’ve ever had. It’s impossible to decide which was better than the other. They both deserve shining gold medals.
“It was at AIIS that I realized what my full potential could be. I landed there in 2012, and it was my first time out of the country. And I proved to myself that I could do it. Just me. I had it in me to be successful so far outside of my comfort zone. So, I came back in 2014, for an encore performance. My law school couldn’t understand why I would use my 1L summer for language study. But they haven’t been here, seen it, breathed the air. Now have they? So, again I came, and again I had the time of my life. And now I’m here for a year. On a dream fellowship. Doing education policy, the thing I want to do most in the world. And it all started right here. Right here in this little Pink City.
“Now, if you look to your right, you’ll see…”
Suddenly, the whole bus started shaking. My legs could barely compensate for the motion, and the microphone dropped from my hand. As the shaking grew stronger, I turned to see that there was no one left on the bus. They were just gone. The shaking continued, and I was about to yell for help when I heard something loud in my ears.
“Caleb, Caleb. Wake up. We’re at the restaurant. Caleb, come on. Get up.”
I opened my eyes and felt a hand jostling my shoulder, shaking me into consciousness. I sat up and blinked a few times, trying to gather my thoughts.
“We’re already there?” I asked.
“Yeah, you were out in like three minutes. Slept the whole way. We liked the quiet too much to wake you.”
As I got off the bus, I felt a familiar tingle on my tongue. Words were battering at my teeth, anxious to be released after so long in slumbering silence. I smiled an impish smile. I couldn’t wait to see my co-Fellows’ faces when they heard about my short-lived career as a Jaipuri tour guide.
