Last night, my mom left for the airport at 10:30 and I was left to fend for myself until my later flight departs.
With a strange sense of closure, I have ended where I began — in the same hotel, writing a blog post, trying to think about what it means to have been here (as opposed to thinking about what it means to be here), and waiting, waiting for a taxi (before it was my mother) to leave.
India is extraordinary. It is unlike Argentina or Greece or home or Scotland, or anywhere else I may have compared it to. The particular issue of Tibetan refugees in India is astounding. The plethora of cultures and religions and people living and working together, and the stark nature of the inequalities visible alongside one another — these things feel different to me. I am sure it is not different than everywhere. Of course, countries may be unique, but they are diverse within as well. Spending five days in Delhi was something like spending five days in Dharamsala, but the hardness of city life has not spread to Dharamsala, and the presence of monks transforms a setting.
Aaagh. I sound so pretentious, trying to describe any piece of this place in broad strokes. With barely any time here. And no Hindi comprehension at all.
Anyway. I was here. Thank you, India.