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I remember a crucial moment in our friendship, our first serious conversation. I believe it can be called serious in spite of the fact that we kept drinking wine mixed with Zabov and the effects were felt ever more intensely.

I remember it vividly because at some point during the evening I went to the bathroom and I looked at myself in the mirror. I looked at my image but I couldn’t look myself in the eyes and feel like myself, as usually happens. I felt as if I was a third person, outside, staring at Rossella. I had exited my body and to re-enter I had to show myself that I was me. I started repeating my name to myself, the various facts of my life. I said, “You’re Rossella! It’s you! It’s me. I am Rossella.”

The American universities, in their application forms, ask you to right a personal assertion. It has to be something revolutionary and original. “The committee needs to understand that you’re a fantastic and fascinating person!” I don’t know what the hell to write except that I’m a strange sort who for some reason is in India and when she looks at herself in the mirror has out-of-body experiences.

“…You’re far away and you have the chance to discover yourself and think about yourself…”

I want to be worthy of my 18 years, yet I’m going through a period of childish curiosity. I’m not an expert in psychology, but this seems to be an oral/tactile phase when I taste, try, and touch everything. I’d like to have an infallible plan for my future, an ideal career and the right studies to do it beforehand. But I only want to rest after India, to do all those things that I’m terrified I won’t otherwise find time to do.

I want to fall in love, I want to find that love that makes your head spin and your breath come short. I want that unstoppable passion, not a flame but a conflagration.

My desire to live is equal to my hunger.

When something is good, I can stuff myself in a way that is, to say the least, NOT feminine, enjoying the wonderful flavor and the sensation of fullness that comes afterwards. When I like something, I can’t say no even to myself. Then comes the day when I look at myself in the mirror and realize that what were handles now look like a love-lifesaver! So I decide to put the brakes on, to concentrate on other things (generally less pleasurable), to diet.

But just as hunger and the smell of chocolate always win out, so my mind, the ideas, the energy, never stop. Everything keeps going in an unstoppable cycle, like that of my metabolism! The analogy life-food is banal, but I’m tired and insatiable. I had to express SOMETHING of what was going through my head today.

It’s frustrating not believing in god. You’re on a mountain at the top of the world, you’re a crumb in an enormous landscape whose beauty equals its size and you ask yourself why you want to cry at such a view? Total green, then, kilometers away, you see some of the highest mountains in the world, covered in snow. You barely have time to turn around when a cloud covers it, sliding like cotton candy among the peaks.

Where the hell does all this beauty come from?

MomComm: I think I know where Ross was standing when she had these thoughts. I remember vividly once walking along the back of the Chukker (i.e., the north side of the hill above the school). I looked up and suddenly saw the far, high Himalayas, and I wondered how it was possible that something so beautiful was there, and I was here to appreciate it. I still didn’t believe in god, but I could see why many people believe that gods live in the Himalayas.

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That fun game where you call someone, and as soon as they turn around, you take a picture.

The monsoon is over. For a week we haven’t had anything but sunshine and blue skies. Then, just like a tube of toothpaste that never ends – you always manage to squeeze a little bit more out – we have one of those last inexplicable and senseless showers. The Return of Monsoon, Monsoon Strikes Again, Monsoon 2.

Friday we have our first vacation after two intense months. My first quarter report card is good. Not even one failing grade, for the first time in my life!

Rehearsals for "The Taming of the Shrew" are going well. The show is gradually becoming an Indianized version, Bollywood style. The other day we practiced the first choreography, and I have to dance… how can I explain? If you’ve seen Moulin Rouge, the part near the end, "chamma chamma".

Have you ever thought about what certain words or names mean in other languages? I had a big laugh to myself when I found out that "sala" means bastard [in Hindi] (there’s even a song that goes "Hey Sala!") while "tona" is a type of black magic used by certain religious sects.

Today in "Religions of Indian Origin" I learned that some strange religions come closer to god by eating pieces of dead, burned human flesh, or the dung of sacred cows.

NO. This I will not try.

But maybe that one where you smoke a lot of dope to reach some kind of nirvana – that one, yes!

(I’m joking, Mom.)

Exhilarating photo taken during the school dance.

MomComm: I know she is. If she was interested in smoking dope, she could have been doing that back in Italy!

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Trishna

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Sunday I went to play with orphans in a school near here. I won’t give long speeches about how I see the world from another perspective, I feel changed and my mission in life is to help the needy.

These are experiences…

The other day India beat Australia in the cricket semifinal. This evening, the India-Pakistan final.

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MomComm: Ross’ Italian friends on fotolog didn’t know what the above objects were. To clear up any confusion: they’re samosas, pastry cones stuffed with ground meat and/or vegetables, and deep fried.

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My new friends have given me a wonderful meal to welcome me to India, and now insist on buying me whatever I want.

The day continues fantastic, Trishna has mehndi done on her hands by a guy on the street, Angela buys an absurd straw hat and wears it for the rest of the day, we all try on ridiculous wigs.

We’re getting tired, but something’s missing. We meet Megan, who says she’s trying to decide whether or not to have her nose pierced. She barely gets the words out of her mouth when Trishna takes me by the chin and turns my face, scrutinizing my nose. “It would look great on you! Look, Shalvi, wouldn’t a stud in her nose look fantastic?” They don’t take long to convince me, and Trishna is so taken with the idea that she offers to pay for all of it.

They know where to take me. The shopkeeper gives me a selection of studs to choose from, together we choose the little white stone. With a file he sharpens it, pulls out a bottle of rum and disinfects my nose. I’m sitting there with his fingers in my nose, waiting for the moment of pain, when I realize it’s already done. I look at myself in the mirror and I have a little sparkly thing in my nose! What a fantastic sensation, finally a bit of healthy rebellion.

We return tired but satisfied, put on our new clothes, and sprawl in front of Pulp Fiction on my laptop. I don’t know how, but both Trishna and I managed to fall asleep in front of Pulp Fiction.

MomComm: We the parents resisted all sorts of piercing ideas for years, managing to ride out the Italian fad for pierced navels, eyebrows, etc. – much to Ross’ disgust at the time. On the whole, I’m happy she ended up with a pierced nose instead – it looks cute.

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There are boring days.

There are exhausting days.

There are days when you’re not yourself or days when you have so much energy that you would like the world to turn upside down.

Then there are the days which change drastically from one moment to the next, days which start normally, then transform when you least expect it.

I wake up a little later than usual with my usual Thursday Indolence – a day when my schedule is heavy and time passes slowly. The Indolence is so great that I put on sweatpants (that aren’t even mine) for the first time since I’ve been here. I try to make myself decent with a pair of earrings, with total lack of success. Not that it matters much to many, but I’m dressed like crap.

Breakfast is disgusting, but I eat it all the same because I’m hungry, like every morning.

I walk listlessly to school, trying to ignore the rumors that today might be a “Fair Weather Holiday”, convinced that I’ll be disappointed in the end. It’s a tradition that the school announces a surprise holiday at the end of the monsoon. Like every week, the high school meets for an assembly in the largest room in the school. A teacher gives a religious talk and asks us to pray, the principal says the usual stuff.

But something changes.

The high school director walks towards the end of the aisle to the stage, as usual, to give announcements. Those seconds of total silence during his walk are always uncomfortable. He reaches the stage, rests his hands on the podium, and brings his mouth close to the microphone. He doesn’t do this in his normal nervous manner, aware of the severe stares of the students. Something is different, he’s not nervous. He simply smiles, with the smile of one who knows [something]. He goes ahead with the announcements, future plans, schedule changes, various tasks. His tone is bored, sick of it all. He knows. He smiles and he knows. He knows he’s wasting time. By this time the students are impatient – they’re making fun of us. Fifteen minutes of assembly, it’s a normal day! And yet we were so sure!

Finally he takes a breath, claps his fleshy hands on the podium, turns towards the principal. It’s a skit: they try to exchange jokes to keep us on tenterhooks when by now it’s so obvious. The school is already celebrating when finally he says it, announces that “today is a fair weather holiday”. He manages to take advantage of that fraction of a second before the yells get too loud to add that, not only do we not have lessons, we can go to the bazaar.

Something about this so unusual and incredibly beautiful day gives me and my new friends a great desire to overdo. Life is beautiful, we’re young, why not have an unforgettable day?

I learn that it comes naturally to me to be natural in any circumstance, and maybe that’s why I’m making new friends.

I’m without money, dressed like an American. Fortunately, I have my small digital camera with me; I’ve gotten into the habit of using it to make videos.

We enter a modest-seeming Indian restaurant and squeeze ourselves around one table. My new friends order a bunch of things whose names I don’t know, but I trust their authentic Indian good taste. I know some better than others, one girl whom I’ve never spoken with seems to know a lot about me and has no problem treating me as if she’s known me for a long time. For my part, I have no trouble telling her all my personal stuff.

We stuff ourselves on parathas, chole bhature, lassi, pau bhaji and aloo bhaji. Everything is exquisite.

MomComm: Ah, yes, the fair weather holiday. Other schools get surprise days off for bad weather, Woodstock gets one for good weather, to add a gift of extra freedom after being cooped up for so long by the relentless monsoon rain. I don’t remember what I did on any particular fair weather holiday, but I remember the breathless anticipation of hoping, expecting, knowing that it would be today, egged on by knowing little looks among the staff members, who try to keep the suspense going as long as possible, before the entire school explodes in joy.

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Thinking of you in England with an empty bottle of baby Moet.

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Today during theater class we made masks (we’re studying Greek theater).

First, my face is completely covered in Vaseline. Then, cold, wet strips of plaster are layered on top.

Bleah.

My personal Ramadan lasted all of one day.

My mood was terrible for the duration of the fast and I didn’t want to do anything but SLEEP. My only hallucinations were mirages of future meals and feasts.

When at last the sun went down, I flew into the dining hall and ate at light speed, of course feeling nauseated afterwards.

I decided that I like food and, honestly, I feel closer to god when I’m rested and have a slice of bread with Nutella in hand!

This morning I ate breakfast, at lunch I ate, and now I’m happy, lively, and AWAKE.

But how the hell did they come up with such an idea? The best part is that these people live in the desert and expect to not drink for 12 hours?!

This seems more like masochism than devotion.

Let me try some other religion, I really don’t think I’m cut out to be Muslim…

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