Leaving Rishi Valley
         Day 12, and time to leave (though I'd happily have stayed longer). I came  to RV in a cab from the airport, arranged by the school: $50. To Bangalore itself I decided to take a bus from the town nearest the school: $2. The three-and-a-half hour ride was cheaper than the subsequent 15-minute auto-rickshaw ride to the Bangalore Club.
     I sat on the back seat of the old bus, because that's where my bags, and the open window, were, not thinking what sort of ride the worn springs and out-holed roads would provide. Long-disused posting muscles were called on, as I rose to accommodate the "trot" of the jolting vehicle.
     The bus-driver's style didn't differ much from the taxi-driver's, though the weight, chassis, suspension, etc, did: swerving, passing, accelerating and braking, with horn accompaniment at all times (Jinny and Clare, if you're reading this, do NOT visit any cities in India: your sensitive hearing will be assaulted mercilessly). The brakes, so essential, squealed ominously, and a few times I thought of my dear children, in case those became my final thoughts.
     Next to me sat two schoolgirls, their curiosity maximum but their English minimal. Photos of my children (including Paul) passed from hand to hand in the last three rows, with voluminous commentary in Telugu. Then my passport (with Chinese and Indian visas) and a $20 bill, were huge attractions.  The girl beside me wanted to keep the bill and give me 20 INR: I had to explain that the US 20 was worth 900 rupees!
     The girls got off at a town bus stop, where a group of waiting schoolgirls gasped audibly and stared at the white-haired white woman in the native bus. Some boys were bolder: they got on to chat, hopping off when the conductor appeared. Snack-sellers also boarded: at least one looked to be about ten, but was clearly not in school. And a loudly-complaining chicken also rode with us, in a cotton bag. A university-student now sat next to me: her English was good, and she explained that she was a farmer's daughter, but she and her sister were both studying in Bangalore.  For women, India's future generally looks better.
     For the last hour the bus was fully packed (but the hectic driving style was not moderated). An extra person squeezed onto the back seat. The jasmine-adorned schoolgirl-passengers were long gone, replaced by young men packed in comme des harengs en boite. The boulder-strewn landscape and green fields disappeared, replaced by buildings and construction projects. It's sometimes difficult to discern when a building is going up, when it's coming down, and when it's stalled: chaos prevails on any site.
     Within an hour of reaching the city limits I was longing to turn about-face and return to Rishi Valley. The city is the noisiest I've ever experienced: an assault on the ears and the spirit. The air is visibly charged with construction dust and car exhaust (auto-rickshaws seem to emit clouds). The ground is littered with debris: there are a very few concrete posts with tiny bowls, perhaps meant for cigarette butts, because they just mock the idea of rubbish bins. Everyone simply drops wrappers, fruit peels, papers, plastic bottles, et al, where they stand. So a sidewalk vendor of sweets on small shiny aluminum plates will be marked by trails of the plates, in all directions. In fact, the sidewalks deserve a separate entry: I took some photos of them today, and I hope they can be rescued from the useless BlackBerry when I return. Fortunately for me, thanks to a mutual Harvard contact, I can retreat to the blissful quiet of the Bangalore Club---where I also just discovered the library, with (unlike the internet cafes) computers whose keyboards are not a microbiologist's dream . . .