9:40 pm.
Paper is due at 4 pm tomorrow. Contrary to what we were told initially in January, this paper is supposed to be very personal and "no, a thesis is required more for the final paper, this is just a reflection." The speaker who spoke this .. Siddhartha .. head honcho to a degree.
My response: "Are you telling me I have to write a glorified journal entry?"

His face... kind of confused and then a YES with a head bobble comes out.

So, that's what I'm writing. Complete with some incomplete sentences and weird punctuation for an artistic effect. This paper is some horrible obstacle towards the last paper which will be interesting to write and will be the last hurtle. We have all reached a plateau here. This is the first paper we've written where everyone sitting in the lab right now maybe have 8 pages combined. Two a piece. That's pretty bad since we've known about this for awhile now, but have opted to play volleyball and not care that much. If the paper topic was sensical, perhaps this would not have been a problem.

So on and so forth.

Yesterday we went to Sid's son's school for an art/crafts/etc show. I sat in the passenger's seat in the jeep, still parked in the driveway and then Papa Bear (as some like to call Siddhartha, who I call Sid) came over to my window and said

"Kate should smile more often!" And then reached his big arms into the car and tickled me. Like a caged animal, which I was, I jumped back and almost landed in John's lap. Taylor and Lauren said there was a look of horror on my face. He repeated the offense three times. The big man laughing, the girl gritting her teeth into a smile... the car full of people thinking "I don't think Kate's really laughing."
He said "But she's laughing" while he let out his own chuckle and I remember when I was little and my Dad would do the same thing to me and I'd be crying and laughing. One reactionary, the other involuntary.
Today at lunch he made a joke lunge at me and I jumped in my seat. Lauren said "I don't think she likes that" and something or other and then he served himself. I'm so amused at how a person can say something and there are a couple of people who I will guarantee you will let your words pour out of your mouth and onto the floor, never picking them up with their ears.

The title Big Papa Bear frightens me. Because it fits him. The man is big. He moves like a bear and some have adopted him as our Temporary Dad. I'll pass on the sentimentality of that paternal cuteness, and take my Lenin lovin', former Aethiest/anarchist/communist, Republican/Catholic Dad any time. My dad might be confused, stubborn, a little off, sardonic in humor, but at least I can relate.

So the cultural thing was great. I had to lie down on a hot slab of rock which made the skin of my stomach tingle because I had an upset tummy. Then Anand (son whose name I probably misspelled) gave me some pink stuff. Gastritis is all the rage here. Everyone's having it. We watched a play which was great, had Raava which is an awesome dessert of rolled/cracked wheat. And I thought about how fucking lucky this kid is and all of the fucking lucky kids. And how, by coming here, I'm one of them...

but without the strings attached.

Yea, without the strings attached... I like that.

So now it's five to ten. Tonight I have uploaded some pictures onto my photobucket, created a sub album on said bucket, drew pictures with Lauren, Rajesh, Siddram in the kitchen, took a picture of Siddram, Rukema, Cheche, Rajesh in the kitchen.
I had to go around the back to take the photo because just as I was about to snap one of Siddram behind the serving counter, Siddhartha came up the steps and Siddram gave me a NO NO look. So all the mumbo jumbo that makes some boundary necessary between US and THEM is antiquated bullshit which I have to hold up because if I tried to be a hero then someone gets canned or reprimanded. I cannot stomp my feet and yell about it, but I can sneak off with Cheche when she says the look out is clear, I can sit in the kitchen and let my hair, butt, hands be patted and accept the bindis, tea, and fruit they give me ... accept the knowledge and love they give me.

Lauren and I hid the paper we were writing on under a basket in the kitchen. Hopefully Gopi won't find it. He says the kitchen staff is a waste, but he is a different story. A sad one that I do not have the pieces to and sometimes… not the patience. His eyes are like cannon balls shooting some kind of pain and intention I cannot understand. Gopi speaks in metaphors which are lost in translation. One day he talked about a river and a stream for half an hour and that's all I know. Something about the Big River not caring about Little Rivers and how "Misunderstanding is ruining life."

How do you write a paper when you can write a book about what's under your nose?