• bargaining prices while I: shop, ride autos, breathe, etc.;
• take-away chicken from Rajinder;
• free copies of India Today magazine;
• Cafe Coffee Day’s hip-hop playlists;
• Mughal architecture;
• Limca soda;
• Lay’s Magic Masala chips;
• dal mahkni;
• getting peanut butter delivered to my flat;
• passing by the Presidential Palace on the way to work;
• hearing Hindi every day;
• the cardamom-laced smell of the air near Connaught Place;
• the amazing, colorful clothing that all of the women wear;
• legit, homemade, sugary chai;
• and naturally, the sacred cows that constantly roam the streets. I will miss all of you the most.

So, brief overview–I’ve been working on this final story about genetically modified brinjal (an Indian variety of eggplant) for the past couple of weeks, researching and e-mailing and calling brinjal experts like crazy. I thought I had to turn in a final-ish draft before I left, but the other day Rohit told me they were moving the story back to January–the year-end and anniversary issues were already planned out–so I just had to finish my interviews before leaving town. And like a true journalist, I waited until the eleventh hour to take care of business–I scheduled four final (and pivotal) interviews, in person and via mobile, for today, which meant that I was all over Delhi for most of the day and wasn’t sure if I would have time to stop by the office for a proper goodbye.

I’d given Rohit a heads up before I left for the PUSA Research Institute, my first stop of the day and my second visit in two weeks (I was there last Thursday for an international biotechnology conference, also for the brinjal story), but not Neeti–his assistant–who had, unbeknownst to me, planned a goodbye party. So I stopped by a cafe to grab lunch between PUSA and my interview with the Monsanto people, and I get a semi-freaked-out call from Neeti asking me where I am, and when I’m coming back…it’s about 2 p.m. at this point and she wanted to know if I could be at the office immediately (obviously not, I still had an interview on the south side of the city at 4:15 p.m. to go to) and, if not immediately, by 5 p.m. Still a major stretch. And part of me–the part that hates goodbyes, and even more than that the idea of being the center of attention at a goodbye party–didn’t want to go back and be part of any hoopla, but she’d already bought food and flowers and gone through all the motions so I had to head back after my final appointment.

Cut to 5 p.m., when I was leaving the India Habitat Centre–a beautiful facility, by the way, where I’d spoken with a senior official at the Confederation of Indian Industry–to catch an auto up to Jhandewalan Extension and the BT office. I sprint in (already hours late to my own gathering, and head spinning from all of the reporting I’d done that day), bag full of reports and notes and the laptop I’d dragged around all day, and check in with Neeti, who ushered everyone into the conference room where plates of samosas and this custard-y pudding dish were waiting, along with this huge bouquet of actual red roses that, for some reason or another, the florist had covered in glitter? I was quasi-embarassed (alright, very embarassed) by all of the food and hoopla, but it was still great to chat and joke and part ways with everyone on a solid note. Then I rushed right off on the metro to Connaught Place, to meet a fellow Medill grad for coffee–huge bag and ostentatious bouquet in tow–before heading back here, to the flat, to (finally) prepare for this trip. I’ve been so busy with job/internship things (I had an interview and an edit test to finish earlier in the week) on top of reporting this story, and Nirvana has been so busy with schoolwork and Thanksgiving-week traveling, that we haven’t even figured out what to do or where to go yet.

But I mean, why on earth would I have anything packed or planned the night before? That would just make too much sense, especially if I were still the pre-Medill, Type A version of my former self. And if this India experience has changed me at all–personally and/or professionally–it’s only intensified this bizarrely chilled out, go-with-the-flow, Midwestern spirit that began to take hold of me last September.

As this story (from IBN itself) begins, “This not the first time journalists have been attacked and unfortunately, it may not be the last.” It’s a dangerous assertion in this still-fledgling democracy, but at least it’s true (which is really what this business is all about, in theory), and it’s a good sign that members of the media are fired up.

At least this anti-press violence is bringing people together–the bonds within India’s fraternity of truth-bearers (in theory, anyway) remain strong, and it seems like that’s the only way a healthy press can exist, when its members aren’t afraid to stand up for their rights and for the role they play in their democracy.

But in Mexico–a land and a people that will always be close to my heart–the truth-bearers aren’t so lucky. According to the Global Post, the country’s drug war violence has morphed and expanded into the journalism industry, where a record number of media workers have died this year.

So 12 doesn’t seem significant, but the chilling effect on the rest of the media industry is. These people are literally on the front lines, risking their lives every time they leave home for a story.

And from the way it sounds (and reads), it seems like there’s nothing much the government can, or will, do. The drug cartels are so powerful that the dire title of Philip Caputo’s Atlantic Monthly article, “The Fall of Mexico,” seems not a bit melodramatic. In fact, a lack of free press seems like the least of Mexico’s worries. But even Caputo can’t help but frame his argument around the state of the press…only radio host Fernando Díaz Santana’s quote, “It is even dangerous to know the truth,” can fully illustrate the depth, and the scope, of the rule-of-law crisis that the country now faces.

The state of India’s press–and the limitations it may face, in a larger social context–is nowhere close to Mexico’s. I’ve been in the industry for two months, and not once have I ever worried about facing an angry telecom executive’s wrath. But if the ties between the health of a democracy and the freedom of its press are so closely bound as Caputo might have us believe, it’s a good thing–almost imperative–that the Indian media have taken this recent attack so seriously, and are responding as a strong and vehemently united front.

Or, as this weekend’s misadventures have proven, maybe it’s just an issue of people not knowing how or where to place me? I went to the Baha’i Temple yesterday, which was swarming with school groups and families with young kids. So I got in the queue to enter the temple, sat in a pew for a few minutes, and left to walk around and shoot some pics. But when I asked the volunteer outside for a brochure–I think she was Chinese-Australian? It’s quite a diverse group that runs crowd control there–in English, she told me they came in all sorts of languages, like German, French, and on and on. I was baffled and she was too, clearly…lady had no idea where I was from even though I asked her for the silly thing IN English?

And when I was walking around the building, a group of Indian girls–maybe 12 or 13 years old?–asked me if I could take a picture. I had my own camera out, so I thought they wanted me to point and shoot, which didn’t really make much sense, until…across the way, their teacher had HER camera pointed at the four of US. Yes, of course. This was an exotic woman from the West photo op, and I was already in too deep to say “no” when I realized what was happening. One of the girls didn’t hesitate to grab my left arm and hold on for dear life. It was silly but it could’ve been worse…they could have been grown men who either ask for your picture or just snap it sans permission, like what happened to me and Marcy at the tomb in Agra.

So when I went gift hunting at Dilli Haat today, where I was by no means the only ambiguously Western face in the crowd, I just lied through my teeth when the vendors asked me my nationality (which 99.9 percent of them did)–yep, I’m from Mexico. One guy said, oh, so that’s in America? And mock horrified (well, kind of really horrified, but it is halfway around the world), I told him no, not from America. I threw a couple of que‘s and sí‘s in there, for good measure, and it was actually kind of fun. Ohh how pedestrian shopping will seem in a few weeks, when I’m back home and no longer a multicultural anomaly.

It was pricey for 45 minutes, at least by Indian standards, and while it was lovely to be pampered and treated and everything–I was also the first customer of the day, so there was an even more rigorous sense of zen coursing through the place–I think I’ve found another job in Delhi, aside from city bus driver, that I would never want to take up. And that’s masseuse. My goodness, you have to be incredibly comfortable with yourself and other people in order to do that job well…so much getting all up in strangers’ grills, so much awkwardness, so much candlelight and aromatherapy. And while I crossed a new threshold of girliness with this spa thing, one that even my sorority days could not have prepared me for, I did kind of feel rejuvenated and renewed (and even harmonised! like the rose and geranium oil was meant for), so I suppose I’ll add one more tally mark to the “India wins” column in my brain.

1. Female co-workers who talk on their cell phones in the washroom. Not only is the hygiene level questionable, but hello, some privacy please? I really wish I didn’t have to avert my eyes (and try to pretend like I’m not overhearing their conversation, even though it’s in Hindi most of the time) every time I pay a visit.

2. Auto rickshaw drivers who spit out every sip of water they drink. I’ve seen so many of these guys chew some pan or sunflower seeds or whatever comes in those little packets, swig some water, and then spit the whole thing out on the street–sometimes while we’re still moving! It seems like a big waste, especially when I can barely stay hydrated with the gallons of water I drink every day.

3. The “lines” in front of the Metro doors. Everyone queues up nicely and neatly before the train pulls in, and then, it’s a free-for-all, like so many things in this city. Which is fine! I’ve learned to love the competitive spirit that courses through every public-sphere interaction here. But what’s with the line in the first place if it’s just going to devolve into a crowd eventually…people, who are you kidding.

So the food was okay (at least for 2:30 a.m.) but this place was no WaWa or Jumbo Slice or Philly’s Best, that is for sure. I was impressed with the make-up selection at this one, though–there was a full-on beauty counter, right across from the veg hot dogs! I guess it can never be too late for a nail polish touch-up between clubs.