Indore, 27 augustus. The story continues: perfection - rejection - acceptance.

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Indore, 27 augustus

I am in such a bad mood, I could cry. Who am I kidding, I àm crying. One of the staff members of the hotel just came in without knocking and I am so f***ing angry right now. I could just give him a punch in the face. Glory glory hallelujah, so far for zen. Hello India.

The day started so well though. I felt rejuvenated, back on top of things. I had made amends with the Alberto-situation, well aware of the fact that there is absolutely no reason to be sad over just another castle in the sky. An Italian? Who was I kidding! It had been great and there is more great things yet to come! New adventures awaiting, life is good! The gratitude for the perfection of my random little life was flowing from the top of my skull all the way into my tummy and tiptoes, as I packed my things, humming Nina’s I’m feeling  good. The bus came by right when I came out of the hotel, I got a nice window seat and the sun was shining over the green and peaceful landscape. I closed my eyes enjoying the breeze and the Indian music that for once wasn’t blaring but actually well chosen and not too loud. Aaah bliss, the life of a traveler, nothing to worry about, just taking it all in, om shanti om. At one of the stops there even was a cellphone playing the Arati-song we sang so many times at the ashram: om jaya Gange mata, but instead of Ganga it was Lakshmi this time. I felt tears of joy welling up, you know how I get when things get too perfect. A couple of stops further, a family of Gypsie-like peeps got on the bus. They carried buckets, tools, a chicken on a leash, whatnot. Quite a show. Some of the girls had wild ragged hair, others had beautiful braids, and all of them were dressed in the nicest colors and fabrics, worn out, dusty and who knows when last washed. The couple sitting across me had four stunning looking kids, unfortunately the mom didn’t want me to take their picture. I’m guessing she was embarrassed, cuz after I asked she covered her hair with her sari. Which I thought was unnecessary, the entire point of taking their pic was my thinking they were gorgeous! The  youngest kid, a little boy of about a year old, was so cute I would have put him in a little box and take it home with me. They all had very dark skin, pretty faces and curly hair and I was simply charmed away by their pure and simple beauty. If only I could compliment them on their wonderful children (Hindi unfortunately is not gonna happen). I was at least as unusual to them as they were to me, so we pretty much were staring and exchanging smiles for the next  half an hour. At another stop a bunch of teenage boys came on the bus, and they took turns to sit beside me. Yay. When their cell phones came out to take my picture, I put my shawl over my head and face. I don’t like being photographed by these slick young guys who don’t even bother asking. Strangely enough by then the music was blaring and I put my earplugs in to keep the high tones from hurting my eardrums. It took the bus about two hours to make it to Bhopal. It took me less than an hour to get from overly happy to slightly annoyed.

I was starving when we arrived in Bhopal so before getting on the next bus to Indore I wanted some samosa’s. The guy selling them kept babbling in Hindi, tried to sell me a plate full of stuff I didn’t ask for, charged fifty(!!) roopies for two samosa’s and then was insisting on me taking his picture. I am eating dude. And you get ten. When I finally got my camera out, with the food hardly down my throat,  the Indore bus suddenly started its engine. So instead of being photographed, the samosa man started blowing a whistle to make the driver wait. Several guys turned up out of nowhere, wildly gesticulating and yelling to stop the bus and to usher me onto it. I got another window seat and settled for at least five more hours of happy travels. Om sri Durgayai namah. Times 108. Times twenty.

The arrival and quest for a hotel in Indore was much easier than the other day in Bhopal, thank God. After getting turned down only three times, I found a reasonably clean and cheap hotel near the railway station, called Neelam. I took a shower and did the daily laundry, and then went looking for an internet place to check FB, emails and book a train to Mumbai. (I decided to stop touristing around and go settle somewhere at the beach to do yoga and chill, instead of visiting another fortress or ancient temple complex. Goa here I come.) When I finally found the internet café, about half a mile from the hotel (can you imagine! In a city like this!!), it started raining again and a major thunderstorm passed over. Result: after hardly ten minutes of using the internet there was a power cut (it gets better and better). But ten minutes was enough to read his last message. And it’s that message that got me from slightly annoyed to rather unsettled. It wasn’t surprising, though. I hadn’t expected anything else, really. At least the smart girl inside of me hadn’t. The silly girl in contrary, had secretly hoped for something else: maybe a declaration of his mutual feelings, or at least the expression of his regrets for not being able to spend more time together. Instead he just spelled out what the deal was; how awfully realistic, how painfully sober. No cement for castles in the sky from this guy, girl.(Which I should actually appreciate, I know!)  Although it has crossed my mind to learn Italian, jump on the next flight to Milan, do whatever it takes just to find out who this man is and what our meeting could mean... -like, how can we tell what's worth a chance?- his message now sternly reminded me that it makes no sense to persue this under the present circumstances. He put my feet right back on the ground, where they belong. Grow up Tinie! Game over. AC Milan-Club Brugge: 0-0. Two nights was too little, two nights was too much. But it was perfect all the same, no regrets! I'm just a little disappointed is all. Stupid reality (curling bottom lip down).

I was sitting there in the dark in that internet place for about ten minutes, wondering if I should wait for the power to be switched back on. I left. Mumbai probably will be reached in yet another friggin bus. It was dark outside and the streets were flooded ankle-deep. It was still pouring. Lightning split the pitch black sky every twenty seconds. I walked that half a mile back to my hotel regardless, bravely holding up my broken umbrella, defying traffic, pushing the boundaries of my fear of dark and unclear water once again. We don’t always get a choice: sometimes the only way to get back home is wading through troubled waters. I am getting the hang out of it.

So far for today my sweet readers.

Greets and godspeed,

Tinie