I am the English-speaking slave of a 5-year-old.

This weekend, I went with my host family to Phaltan (like Fulton with an Indian accent). My Ahi's mother and father in law live there, and they own a small farm outside of town. This was the last weekend of Gonpati, though the festival continues until Wednesday or so. Because Phaltan is a much smaller town (a measly 50,000 residents as of 2000), there is quite a sense of importance surrounding the Gonpati festival and rituals. Every home participates in a competition over the size and quality of their shrines to Ganesh. Outside on the front porch they all draw intricate pictures with different colors of sand. And the most interesting thing? They all dress up and visit each other's shrines on Friday night.

Imagine you have a friend. You don't know her very well, but she seems nice. After you've known her about a week, she insists that you visit her grandparents with her, in a town about 60 miles (but 3 hours) away. Once you arrive she proceeds to speak to her relatives in a foreign tongue you can't understand, and doesn't ever really explain anything that happens. But on Friday night she helps you into her clothes (which don't really fit you and certainly aren't your style) so that you can go and visit all of her grandparent's friends.

Once you go into their friends' houses, all the strangers stare at you, while you stare at a giant shrine in the middle of the living room. The shrine usually features a big statue of an elephant wearing a turban, flanked by two female statues about 2 feet high wearing saris, around 20-30 different types of homemade Indian sweets, shiny tinsel all over the walls, and a variety of blinking Christmas lights. Sometimes there are stuffed Valentine's Day bears or statues of birds, sometimes there are American things like action figures of random movie characters. When you walk in, everyone speaks again in this strange tongue and you smile and nod, and sometimes in English they ask you what you've come to India to study. You sheepishly answer: Indian culture. They smile and nod and ask what your parents do, how much money they make, what college you attend, how you're liking India, etc., etc., etc. Then, smiling, they touch between your brows with red and yellow dust, and hand you a leaf, a nut, and some white powder. You stand up to leave and fold all of the treats into the leaf, then put it in a bag (rather like a bag of Halloween candy--the white powder is actually a mix of coconut, sugar, and cashews). I think this process is something like going to a neighborhood to see all their Christmas lights--only you go inside and the strangers give you candy and ask you questions about your parents.

The ritual itself is strange, too. Sometimes you do the ritual three or four times a day. It involves everyone standing around the statue of the elephant wearing a turban, where everyone sings and claps in unison. The song changes pace and tune three times and there are a few 360-degree turns you're never quite expecting. Then everyone's given flowers or food or rupees to give to the elephant at the right moment, and burning incense is passed around. You wave your hands over the incense then through your hair... you hand the flowers to the elephant and greet him with your palms together in Namaste.

I'm kind of starting to love Hinduism.

This weekend wasn't all about Gonpati, though that seemed to be the main excuse for coming to Phaltan. For me, it was a weekend of both my highest and my lowest points in India thus far. My highest point went something like this:

While we were out visiting various Ganesh shrines all over town, we were interrupted in one house by my Ahi's father-in-law, who beckoned us back to the house in a hurry. I, of course, was given no explanation, but when we entered, I saw the cause of his laughter and his urgency: there were about 30 boys, between the ages of 3 and 16, seated in their living room (the only furnature, I might add, was a single couch and six red plastic chairs. The rest were on the floor). When I entered, they all turned to me and stared. Instantly, I blushed deeply, all the way to the roots of my hair. I participated in the Gonpati ceremony (the singing-and-turning-in-circles one), and then sat down. Instantly, about twelve of the boys were seated around me, asking me questions in Marathi. Realizing I understood very little, one of the older boys translated a bit. They were asking the same probing questions their parents did, but with more emphasis on what I can say in Marathi and when my birthday is. They made me laugh a lot, and suddenly it seemed there was no language barrier at all, even though I could only understand one of them. They laughed at my terrible accent and the things that I can say--what time is it? I want some water. Truly!?! May I go to the movies? Turn right here. These boys absolutely brightened up my day.

I learned later that the boy who translated goes to the college where my Ahi's mother-in-law works as a Marathi professor and lives upstairs. He also does some charity work as a leader of a boy's group called the R.S.S., where all these boys meet and play games, sing songs, and do yoga together. They came every evening to talk to me and stare at me, and I left Phaltan feeling wonderfully attached to them.

My lowest point went something like this:

I was sitting on my bed, alone, reading Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert. The book was comforting, mostly because it was in English. I felt incredibly lonely, for my first time in India. I missed my parents, my brother, and my friends terribly. I missed adult conversation in English. I missed understanding everyone around me and being understood by everyone too. Here in this strange world, none of the adults were interested in speaking English to me unless they were addressing me directly. They were too absorbed in family time to notice that I was lonely. Instead, the only person who spoke to me often in English was my 5-year-old host sister, Srushti. You can imagine all the stimulating conversations we had. We played Slap Jack and Go Fish about a million times and she forced me to play with her and I realized... I am the English-speaking slave of a 5-year-old.

Another strange, though I suppose not entirely bad moment, was shopping. I bought my first punjabe, from a botique in Phaltan (much pricier than I was hoping to spend). I tried on about 50 ready-made punjabes in about a million colors, almost none of which I liked. The salesgirl forced me into one she insisted was "very fashionable" in India right now, but just looking at it I could imagine the wrinkled noses of my mother and grandmother, had they been in the dressing room with me. Almost all that I tried on I could hear my mom saying, "We can do better," or my Mimi saying, "Oh, Megan! That's just horrid!" I bought only one: a rather expensive beaded peace that fit me like a glove. It's blue and gold and yes, I'll put up a picture soon. It's really not for everyday wear, but the whole thing only came to $28.... though seeing a price tag that says 1,400, no matter what currency, is a little bit perturbing.

The other interesting experience was the bus ride, which was exactly like you just imagined it: a red, rickety old Indian bus, crammed full of Indians with even a few on top, travelling over dirt roads. It was an experience, I'll tell you that much. I somehow managed to sleep through most of the crowded ride, though I laughed at the image in my head of my dad and brother, both over 6 feet tall, riding in this bus: at 5'6'' my knees were already pressing up against the seat in front of me. I felt lonely, then, too... crowded on a bus, surrounded by strangers who wouldn't understand me if I spoke, sure that I was the only one feeling like my personal space was being invaded.

Now I'm "home" again, back in Pune and ready for some adult conversation in English. I'm lucky that my friend Sydney who lives around the corner came over tonight or I might have lost my mind with missing home and being understood. I think I've found what I was looking for when I came to India... this is certainly going to be a challege.