I don't know why I've called India the motherland, I don't think our family has any real hereditary links here, but since I do feel like Indian culture and civilization is so ingrained in the foundation of Indonesian culture, the term seems fitting. The following are streams of thoughts that ran through my head on December 6th, 2014 in Kalasalingam University: an hour south of Madurai.
What will I miss about this place? What will I remember? The quiet rural breeze would pick up and carry with it the scent of sandalwood that is always slightly present in the air. We've spent some 3 or 4 days here, if we didn't have a calendar I would have lost track of time completely. It feels like the day goes by so seamlessly, without too much marking each day with some wonderful adventure. I feel bad for saying that but to say otherwise would be untrue. Time would amble along aimlessly, scrambling the past, present, and future together like eggs in the morning. God, I miss scrambled egg.
The campus is surrounded by rocky hills that's reminiscent of the hills you would find in outback Australia. The red earth that you would find scattered by the roads here and there—juxtaposed by unkempt bush land—further reinforced that feeling of being in the outback. Surrounded by an awesome landscape, there isn't anything for miles. We went to a temple devoted to Lord Vishnu the other day, but it was out of the way, having to drive out around 30-45 minutes from the university grounds. There is limited internet access and phone reception, and all the television programs are entirely in Hindi, there just isn't any distraction, making it an ideal place to study. Of course it’s bugger all for those of us who aren't here to study. But it's probably good that there aren't any of those things to distract my mind with.
I've been trying to read Kafka on the Shore but as I expected it would take a moderate amount of time to read since the theme is so…dense. In the time I'm not reading that, I'm watching Orange Is the New Black (which I've finished watching the entirety of already) or reading What I Talk About When I Talk About Running. So I'm reading a lot of Murakami whose books always deal with some sort of physical or emotional seclusion, something that perfectly describes my current situation (in fact, a series about a woman in prison also deals with those themes but to a rather extreme point).
It sounds like I'm complaining, maybe I am a little bit, but I'm also grateful to be here. It's here that I finally began to understand how precious and delightful a small cup of warm, plain jasmine tea is for me. Mum made it this morning because I could barely swallow any breakfast. It was delicious, like a splash of water in a hot, dry Australian summer (I know I've compared this place to the outback more than I have Indonesia). It wasn't too sweet. It wasn't too strong. It was familiar. That's another thing that I've finally learned to appreciate and grow extremely fond of: familiarity to one's roots.
I'm not like my sister who can up and leave to some random corner of the earth and find bliss where ever she goes. A mentor figure once spoke to me about this philosophy she'd learned in a small café in Berlin, that one should grow wings and also have roots, or something to that effect, I realize that not quoting it verbatim practically diminishes any sense and profundity left to the actual saying. What the philosophy meant was that one should have the courage to grow wings and fly as high as possible to chase one's dreams, but also still have established a strong root that could ground them back home should they fly too far away. Mum also said this morning as she handed that oh so wonderful cup of tea, that when we travel for a long time and to a place so foreign, it's always good to bring something that reminds you of home. I now wonder how she felt about all the travelling she did during the times when my sister and I were too little to tag along and her home was so far away. I used to think that it was extremely cool that she's gone to all those places, I still do, but who's to say it wasn't also extremely lonely at the same time?
I suppose the most bizarre thing about this place is how familiar things are, and yet how absolutely not familiar they are at the same time. The buildings and rural grounds, as well as the chaos of city life is not at all different from how things are back home. When we traveled down south to the coast of Kanniyakumari, I couldn't stop thinking about how similar the scenery was to those we would see on our way to Central Java. It’s the same, but not. It’s like stepping into an alternate dimension when you think you're home but nothing is the same, the people are different, the culture is different, and they have no convenience stores at every corner of every street (I didn't think that would be something I'd miss so much!) And that feeling of being home but that everyone you know and care about, and all the things you've grown fond of have all been replaced by complete strangers just quadruples the feeling of loneliness I feel here. Even though I have my mum, and the tea, and the clothes I love from home. It's still terrible lonely here, and there's nowhere to run to escape that feeling.
What will I miss about this place? What will I remember? The quiet rural breeze would pick up and carry with it the scent of sandalwood that is always slightly present in the air. We've spent some 3 or 4 days here, if we didn't have a calendar I would have lost track of time completely. It feels like the day goes by so seamlessly, without too much marking each day with some wonderful adventure. I feel bad for saying that but to say otherwise would be untrue. Time would amble along aimlessly, scrambling the past, present, and future together like eggs in the morning. God, I miss scrambled egg.
The campus is surrounded by rocky hills that's reminiscent of the hills you would find in outback Australia. The red earth that you would find scattered by the roads here and there—juxtaposed by unkempt bush land—further reinforced that feeling of being in the outback. Surrounded by an awesome landscape, there isn't anything for miles. We went to a temple devoted to Lord Vishnu the other day, but it was out of the way, having to drive out around 30-45 minutes from the university grounds. There is limited internet access and phone reception, and all the television programs are entirely in Hindi, there just isn't any distraction, making it an ideal place to study. Of course it’s bugger all for those of us who aren't here to study. But it's probably good that there aren't any of those things to distract my mind with.
I've been trying to read Kafka on the Shore but as I expected it would take a moderate amount of time to read since the theme is so…dense. In the time I'm not reading that, I'm watching Orange Is the New Black (which I've finished watching the entirety of already) or reading What I Talk About When I Talk About Running. So I'm reading a lot of Murakami whose books always deal with some sort of physical or emotional seclusion, something that perfectly describes my current situation (in fact, a series about a woman in prison also deals with those themes but to a rather extreme point).
It sounds like I'm complaining, maybe I am a little bit, but I'm also grateful to be here. It's here that I finally began to understand how precious and delightful a small cup of warm, plain jasmine tea is for me. Mum made it this morning because I could barely swallow any breakfast. It was delicious, like a splash of water in a hot, dry Australian summer (I know I've compared this place to the outback more than I have Indonesia). It wasn't too sweet. It wasn't too strong. It was familiar. That's another thing that I've finally learned to appreciate and grow extremely fond of: familiarity to one's roots.
I'm not like my sister who can up and leave to some random corner of the earth and find bliss where ever she goes. A mentor figure once spoke to me about this philosophy she'd learned in a small café in Berlin, that one should grow wings and also have roots, or something to that effect, I realize that not quoting it verbatim practically diminishes any sense and profundity left to the actual saying. What the philosophy meant was that one should have the courage to grow wings and fly as high as possible to chase one's dreams, but also still have established a strong root that could ground them back home should they fly too far away. Mum also said this morning as she handed that oh so wonderful cup of tea, that when we travel for a long time and to a place so foreign, it's always good to bring something that reminds you of home. I now wonder how she felt about all the travelling she did during the times when my sister and I were too little to tag along and her home was so far away. I used to think that it was extremely cool that she's gone to all those places, I still do, but who's to say it wasn't also extremely lonely at the same time?
I suppose the most bizarre thing about this place is how familiar things are, and yet how absolutely not familiar they are at the same time. The buildings and rural grounds, as well as the chaos of city life is not at all different from how things are back home. When we traveled down south to the coast of Kanniyakumari, I couldn't stop thinking about how similar the scenery was to those we would see on our way to Central Java. It’s the same, but not. It’s like stepping into an alternate dimension when you think you're home but nothing is the same, the people are different, the culture is different, and they have no convenience stores at every corner of every street (I didn't think that would be something I'd miss so much!) And that feeling of being home but that everyone you know and care about, and all the things you've grown fond of have all been replaced by complete strangers just quadruples the feeling of loneliness I feel here. Even though I have my mum, and the tea, and the clothes I love from home. It's still terrible lonely here, and there's nowhere to run to escape that feeling.
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