I wrote these a little over a week ago:
I bought leggings and a maroon kurthi for much too high a price. I still haven’t worn them because I’m embarrassed. When I walk down the street, I never listen to my iPod—Western music feels out of place; then again, I resist dressing in traditional clothes. I’m so tall and white…I can’t hide that behind an embroidered tunic.
*
Two days ago, I got caught in a monsoon. I was walking across the beach, trying to dodge a rain cloud, but the faster I jogged, the closer the cloud blew. At last, I realized it was moving seaward from the city, the edge of it curled in a mushroom rim as it pushed against an ocean front. I couldn’t escape it. Soon, heavy drops were smacking my skin, so thick they stung. In a minute, I was drenched down to my underwear. I hoped to find protection at the bus stand, but the wind blew raindrops underneath the shelter. When the 6D arrived, I had to ford a torrential gutter and soaked my shoes and socks. Inside, the bus lights flickered and threatened to die, but I felt relieved to be among sari-clad women and heckling men. For the first time, no one seemed to care that I was light-skinned or foreign. An elderly lady patted an open seat beside her and bobbed her head in distinctive Indian fashion. Her specs twinkled. “Sit,” she said with a thick accent. I wiped the water from my face and bobbed my head in return.
