Finally the trip came together; he pulled the funds together for a plane ticket to bring me over during my winter break. At last, the blue-eyed Visakhi β the Indian handle Murali gave me back in Africa, named for a harvest festival that falls on my birthday β would reach the fabled land of call centers and chapatis.
I recruited two old travel buddies and fellow graduate students, a photographer and techie, to come along and help out. I would do the writing, Lupe would take photos and Derek would film the projects: the three media musketeers.
While the work was quite interesting and my colleagues quite gracious, Warangal was no hotspot for nightlife or tourism. Other big outings included taking a motor-rickshaw to town to shop for pomegranates, milk sweets and souvenir saris.
Given the lack of entertainment in Warangal, I spent most of my evenings studying Indian culture through the boob tube, watching Bollywood soaps, how-to yoga shows, and the Cartoon Channel in Hindi Scooby-Doo was never so hilarious. The staple of my social life came to be suppertime caveman mimes with Satith, an effeminate, baby-faced errand boy who politely called me Madam but had the habit of entering before knocking, which made getting dressed a daredevil event, and Aima, a sprightly albeit aged Muslim widow who did all the cooking, cleaning and clowning in the complex.
Aima and Satith spoke ten words of English put together, which is more than I spoke Telugu, the native language of Andhra Pradesh. Very delicious! They lived to better the plight of the poor. It was inspirational to witness their resolve, and I was proud to be documenting the bountiful fruits of their labor. But all work and no play made Vishaki a very dull girl. As much as I had come to like the super-sweet chai, I missed my Merlot. Like my Indian colleagues, I wanted to do good in the world, but sometimes I just wanted to go out and be bad too.
