Perspective

Yesterday I was reading through a journal entry from 2010.  I was transported back in time to a different world.  A world in which I drove a green motorcycle to work each day, tended a garden, and gasped at the thought of a friend leaving her job to travel the world for a year.  The entry ended and as I closed Microsoft Word I saw my reflection in Josh’s laptop screen, the same reflection I look at now as I write this journal entry.  My hair is an odd variation of a greasy afro which my patchy beard is trying to replicate on the lower half of my face, my thinning shoulders are bare to allow for efficient evaporation of the sweat that drips down my neck, and in the background is the poor excuse for a bed I am leaning against as I sit on the bare floor.  Mixed smells of curry, feces, and baked goods waft in through the glassless windows and though I normally tune everything out, for a moment I listened to the background noises of continuous honking, bartering, and barking coming from the streets below my room.  It is nearly inconceivable how one person can live two such dissimilar lives, laid out side by side in neat rectangles on a time-line. 

I used to get mad at the societal norms and implied obligations within American culture that disagreed with me; now I get mad at taxi drivers who try to double my fare to 100 rupees because I’m white.  I used to read books about adventurers and controversial theological topics; now I slowly sound out Bangla words on shop fronts as I ride the bus.  I used to carefully match my evening clothes so as not to appear overly hipster or borderline hippy; now I remind myself to stop and cover up men sleeping on the sidewalk who have let their longgee get a little too loose.  I prefer tandoori roti to paratha, but a well-made nan can be better than either.  I know the exact metro car to get on at Jatin Das Park so that when the train arrives at the Park Street stop I am the first one through the turnstiles.  Every person I pass sleeping on the street I consciously analyze as to whether or not they have family members, if they are sick or wounded, and if I should stop to check on them without slowing my pace or turning my head.  I used to live the American dream, now I just live. 

I had this afternoon free.  I decided to devote it to a long neglected task: buy a pack of 3x5 notecards.  I spent three hours wandering around a market slightly smaller than the state of Alaska and with 7000 times the amount of people before finally compromising on the closest thing Kolkata had to offer at the only paper product stall I could find.  It was a tiny pad of paper about the size of a cell phone and it cost 2 rupees (0.03 USD).  I bought two of them.  Today was a productive day; I sang aloud to myself as I walked back to Afridi Guest House in high spirits and swung my miniature grocery bag to the beat, unaware of a world in which a productive day consisted of pushing through the FAA approval of a turbine engine for the new Gulfstream private jet, running 6 miles, leading a Bible study, and cooking myself a delicious dinner of pork loin and home-grown summer squash.  I suppose I’ve changed the world.  

NOTE:  Thank you to my readers for reading, you would hardly be a reader without it!  Just to tie everything up from two weeks ago, I am long over my illness and feeling 100% now.  I spent a week in Thailand recovering with some good friends and have gained back probably half of the weight I lost.  Welp, I'm off to a World Cup party at the German embassy, ttyl!