Fruit Juice and Bowling Pins

I washed my face after a morning at Vidyapith, a grade school. I look different to myself in the mirror. Shirley Miss, a teacher at the college, warned me to wash my face with cold water aaaall the time. She describes the previous volunteers’ battles with dry-season zits as a horrendous affair. “They were covered head to toe,” she states with conviction. I wonder how her science fiction-esk exaggerations will describe me to future volunteers, “She was sooo short, the size of a leeetle mouse.” Her Dr.Who-ish concern is valid, however, and I follow her prescription.

My walk home from Viyapith was a short one. I passed a scampering lizard and considered the strange popularity of the idiom “to bell the cat.” I passed students who, immediately upon seeing me, began simultaneously bumping into each other like stubborn bowling pins and clutching each other like scared mice waiting for the immanent pounce. The affect I have on people in Mavelikara is a strange phenomenon.

I pass a woman in her early thirties who asks “You’re going to college here?” as she walks by. I answer “No” with a friendly smile, which she returns. Neither of us stop walking. Going to college here. A smile on my face. The college students are preparing for exams – big ones. They’re signing end-of-the-year diaries. Next year’s preficts have been elected. I walk past the college campus and the bowling pins fumble for the security of friends’ hands.

My stomach isn’t doing its 12:30 rumble. It’s too hot to eat rice. I am a ridiculous American. I just want cold water, fruit juice and an iced mocha. The cinnamon skies have become a sweltering sauna.

My afternoon is free. I decide to go into town after lunch. I haven’t bought a new churidar since before Christmas. I’ll get a cold fruit juice. Check my email. This freedom to spend an afternoon as I wish is a gift that none of the hostel girls have. I realize this as I concoct my afternoon away.