The crumbling guesthouse in India.
4 years ago, we moved to India to help Dad with his work. The first place we put our heads down at was a guesthouse. We were forced to stay there for about a month (until we felt we were ready to settle down, our currency was changed and our bags packed). It may seem stressful but it made for a wonderful experience.
I remember crying a lot, though because I was afraid of evil mosquitoes feasting on my blood. This would prevent me from enjoying the lovely views outside the walls I hid in. Luckily, I got over it pretty quick. Soon, I was able to embrace the tropical mist, cope with the sticky atmosphere and gulp down breakfast to pet every stray dog I could find (I became eager to start the day but nothing was to be done until the plate shone in its emptiness). Having a routine was one of the best things this place gave me.
Thinking back on things now, I realize that our stay would’ve been less alien-like if only someone had spoken our language. We were foreigners, odd-looking people. Ours wasn’t an attractive area, it was more modest than not. Some residents saw us as intruders, others as mere tourists. Yet we managed to open up to a small group.
Day by day we went by, putting up with all sorts of difficulties; shopping, allergies, insane traffic, tedious medication… The toughest blow was the death of one of our friends. I was unprepared for the news and I wish we hadn’t bonded so strongly.
I recommend this experience to anyone who feels like retiring to a more peaceful state of mind. In order to survive in India, one must be patient and keep an open mind. The simplicity in our lives was somehow beautiful. A trip like this teaches you so many things, you could write sagas of novels with them.
