Tables turn, US department of Education.

On Sunday, November 7^th, I gave an unexpected and lamentably pathetic speech to the thirty-three members of the delegation of the US Department of Education. Yes, indeed, on a podium, with a microphone, greatly underdressed and in front of Eduardo Ochoa, the secretary for postsecondary studies in the United States, among others. This is the story.

I was awarded with the Gilman Scholarship in order to facilitate my study abroad experience in India. To be completely honest, I know nothing, reputation-wise, about this scholarship. I filled in an application, as I fill in hundreds, as any other. But the fact is, one day while I was enjoying of my placid life at Visthar, I was invited to a luncheon with the delegation of the Department of Education, because of my condition as a “Gilman Scholar”.  I am not completely sure how many other “Gilman Scholars” are studying in Bangalore currently; however, I do know that I was the only one that decided to show up. Perhaps they knew something I did not. The luncheon was held at the Lalit Ashok Hotel, a five star hotel; the fanciest place I have been to while being in India. And perhaps the fanciest place I have ever been to. (Apparently Miss Bangalore was held there a couple weeks ago).

I am not completely sure what beast invaded my soul when I entered that place. However, I do know that the luxury, the Americans in suits and the obsession with “increasing numbers, increasing numbers”, was just too much of a contrast for me. Nothing to do with the India we have been experiencing here for the last two months. I believe that unconsciously I decided to try and teach them a small lesson. At lunch, I told the few people that actually had the decency in faking that they had interest in hearing what a college student had to say, about my experience in arriving at the hotel. That morning, I waited near Visthar for the bus for about an hour, under the rain, and stressing out about being late. The bus never came, but someone on a huge motorcycle did stop to afford me a ride. At first I thought it was Vinoj (Visthar Staff) and therefore was going to accept the ride. However, when I got close, I realized it was not Vinoj. I decided to accept the ride anyway. What normally takes the bus fifteen minutes, took us five. Under the rain. I was not worried for being late anymore. I was worried for my life. In the end it turned out to be a good choice. I had coffee with the crazy motorcycle driver, and he introduced me to a rickshaw driver friend of his, who gave me a ride to the hotel. I told the members of the US delegation from the Department of Education that India is time to forget many things learned in the US. Here sometimes there is no other option but to trust people. Trust strangers. Trust motorcycle drivers. (Although they have explicitly told you not to ride on them…).