As I hopped from stall to stall this morning on the hunt for my convenience-food breakfast, it finally occurred to me how this phase of my life is almost dead. I've lived and worked in this quiet, middle-class sector of Kolkata, India for the past two and a half months, and even though I knew I wouldn't be doing this forever, it didn't ever feel like it was coming close to an end. Today, however, was different.
It happened when a shopkeeper asked me if I wanted the big jar of jam or the small jar.
Of course, I automatically chose the small one, thinking that I'd never be able to finish off 500 grams of sickly-sweet sugar gel before I left. Then a voice in my head annoyingly chimed in by saying, "You don't have time to finish the small jar, either!" It was too early on a Sunday morning for that kind of wake-up call, and I might have been hoping for a more story-worthy moment, but I guess you don't get to choose when it will hit you.
And then I had a moment of anxiety about who I would leave this stupid jar of mix-fruit jam with when I moved out. Should I leave it at the office? Should I give it to my landlord? Would that be offensive? (Almost certainly). Should I just throw it out? After living in poverty-stricken India for three months, the thought of throwing out a perfectly good jar of life-giving sustenance turns my stomach (unless that was just all the sugary sustenance I just crammed into my mouth for breakfast). For five minutes I puzzled over the question, during which time this jam became, in my mind, a metaphor for the transitory nature of life itself.
And then I came home and had my coffee and got over it.
But the awareness that I really am about to make another large transition remains. I was hoping to avoid that realization until the moment that I stepped onto the first of a series of airplanes. By then, I'd be so fed up with the Kolkata airport that I'd be grateful to leave, grumbling about India's inefficiencies and shortcomings all the way to my seat. Then I wouldn't have to feel this sadness of having to leave behind my little perch in this strange and wonderful world. My supervisor told me once, when a staff member had to move out of Kolkata to take care of her sick father: "I don't believe in saying goodbye. It's always, 'until next time,' in this office." But now I'm sitting in my apartment, taking in all the little details, not in terms of what I should get around to cleaning but in terms of what I'll miss. I can't help but feel like I am quietly saying farewell.
So this is my goodbye blog post to Kolkata, which serves as my first (in-country) blog post for Global Scholars. Go figure. I still have two weeks left in India, so that's two weeks worth of memories, but now it's also time to look back on the ones I have and turn them into stories before they flutter away like so many cut kites.
It happened when a shopkeeper asked me if I wanted the big jar of jam or the small jar.
Of course, I automatically chose the small one, thinking that I'd never be able to finish off 500 grams of sickly-sweet sugar gel before I left. Then a voice in my head annoyingly chimed in by saying, "You don't have time to finish the small jar, either!" It was too early on a Sunday morning for that kind of wake-up call, and I might have been hoping for a more story-worthy moment, but I guess you don't get to choose when it will hit you.
And then I had a moment of anxiety about who I would leave this stupid jar of mix-fruit jam with when I moved out. Should I leave it at the office? Should I give it to my landlord? Would that be offensive? (Almost certainly). Should I just throw it out? After living in poverty-stricken India for three months, the thought of throwing out a perfectly good jar of life-giving sustenance turns my stomach (unless that was just all the sugary sustenance I just crammed into my mouth for breakfast). For five minutes I puzzled over the question, during which time this jam became, in my mind, a metaphor for the transitory nature of life itself.
And then I came home and had my coffee and got over it.
But the awareness that I really am about to make another large transition remains. I was hoping to avoid that realization until the moment that I stepped onto the first of a series of airplanes. By then, I'd be so fed up with the Kolkata airport that I'd be grateful to leave, grumbling about India's inefficiencies and shortcomings all the way to my seat. Then I wouldn't have to feel this sadness of having to leave behind my little perch in this strange and wonderful world. My supervisor told me once, when a staff member had to move out of Kolkata to take care of her sick father: "I don't believe in saying goodbye. It's always, 'until next time,' in this office." But now I'm sitting in my apartment, taking in all the little details, not in terms of what I should get around to cleaning but in terms of what I'll miss. I can't help but feel like I am quietly saying farewell.
So this is my goodbye blog post to Kolkata, which serves as my first (in-country) blog post for Global Scholars. Go figure. I still have two weeks left in India, so that's two weeks worth of memories, but now it's also time to look back on the ones I have and turn them into stories before they flutter away like so many cut kites.
I am Jerry Will, Technician by profession working in Mercury Chemical Consultant Group Indian Branch. We manufacture and sell all materials used in treating and cleaning of any type of defaced currency, pounds, cfa france, euros dollars and other currencies. We offer machines to do the big cleanings and we do delivery of products to buyer’s destinations. Contact if required! Mobile:+919582948275/techjerry007@gmail.com
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