this is a love letter.

there's this saying that american transplants in india say, and really, it's quite simple: 'oh, india.'

oh, india: your coolest hours are the early morning right after the smog finally settles with the heat and the sun just starts to rise, but your business day doesn't start until eleven am, even though you opted out of air conditioning so inside is worse than outside somehow.

oh, india: even if you are waiting at the door at eleven am, it's unlikely you'll be let inside until almost noon, the sun starts to pull the sweat from your pores and saturates your shirt with sweat. oh, india, you invited me to dinner and i was there an hour early, and oh, india, i looked through every photo album in your house and had the story of every childhood scar reiterated twice in broken hindi-english before dinner was served two hours late.

oh, india: i watched two monkeys play on a roof until they saw me and hid, and an old man told me not to feel silly, they are funny. oh, india, you are full of monkeys everywhere who steal your purse looking for biscuits and oh, india, your capital was rebuilt sixteen times to discourage continuity in any sense, architechturally or otherwise, and that makes it easy for bicycle rickshaws to peddle alongside families of monkeys who hide or steal, extravagant hotels full of tourists seeking ayurvedic massage, smiling children who want to shake your hand and say hello, broken children who barely have the strength to ask for a rupee.

and, oh, october. i have the same sentiments about you. you are this total clash of everything, whose sense is lost in the cacophony. you are hot and cold and i went on trips during you and i wrote dozens of midterms during you and i slept late while you cracked leaves off the trees and you made me drink too much and fall apart and get lonely and disintegrate and run away from you, october. and this year, worst of all, i don't really know what you want from me.

i have such a clear memory of last winter and fall that it seems impossible for a full year to have come and gone, but i am old and forgetful. i don't remember much of the spring or summer or even september, and i anthropomorphize months. i went to lars's house today to watch tv, and i forgot what fall in new brunswick is like, how the air takes on this impossible chill that doesn't hinder anyone from being outside, how familiar the short walks through the sixth ward are, how the traffic light on courtlandt street reflects into my old living room but not his new living room.

oh, october. you told me things aren't meant to stay the same forever, and i'm not sure what i'm doing here still.